Chapter 1

Travis hated office parties most of the time. They quickly degenerated into huddles of like-minded folk swapping office gossip. The executives were always the worst offenders, rarely stooping to mingle with the techies. Perhaps they would chat with the smarmier of the sales people, getting the low-down on customer deals, sniffing for signs of success in the latest sales campaign. The techies themselves were no better, chewing over the madness of Microsoft’s latest specifications, warring about other people’s programming code or swapping heroic tales of achievement in online games forums. The beer and wine always flowed fast, though, and there was plenty of it. Alterbank’s recent contract win at National Midland was to be thanked for that.
He was especially dreading this office party.
“Don’t you hate these beer bashes?” he asked his friend and partner-in-crime, Will Heavens.
Will was a technical hotshot who could find his way round all the nooks and crannies of Alterbank’s millions of lines of software. Will was a quick-witted, somewhat cynical programmer, whose taste in humour appealed to him and the two had developed a close working relationship, which had extended outside the office.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Will replied, brushing his shoulder length, noticeably unwashed, black hair behind his ears. His ears, crowned by a noticeable spike, had earned him the name “Spock” around the office, although, given his intensity, he had yet to pick up on this nickname. “Still, I’m sure they’re great for company morale, and I suppose it’s always useful to find out what’s going on in the rest of the world. And you never know what might happen…”
“But it’s all for show, really,” he interrupted, ignoring Will’s sly smile. He simply did not want to discuss what was about to happen. “You know, they hype it up, preach away and all that. It’s just a bit forced. But, someone has to do it. Only the sales people always seem to enjoy it.”
“Lazy bastards, aren’t they?” said Will. “They swan around in trendy suits and poncey ties like they own the place. And what do they actually do? Brown-nose with the customers – lunches and golf – and boss everyone else around when we have to tidy up their mess. The stuff they tell the customers is amazing! And who’s around after seven most evenings? Certainly not that lot!”
“How are you boys doing?” boomed a grisly voice behind them.
Rankin sidled up with a glass of white wine in one hand, a half-chewn buffalo wing in the other. You boys? Rankin patted him on the shoulder with his forearm; presumably to avoid smearing chilli dip over his long-sleeved Boomtown Rats T-Shirt.
Rankin was the sales manager at Alterbank and his brash, noisy style was legendary. Rankin was the archetypal high-tech salesperson: all style, no substance.
“I never said how much I owe you boys,” chirped Rankin.
Rankin was spot on with that assessment and winked at Will whose elongated ears stiffened visibly, a sure sign of irritation. Rankin had no notion of all that heart-ache and sweat that he and Will had put in to solve the near-disastrous bug that had almost blown his latest deal.
“Above and beyond the call of duty what you boys did for me at National Midland. Putting in that overtime to get the job done.” Overtime? They had worked their bollocks off all weekend, while Rankin was slicing balls off the fairway. And they had managed to fix a complicated bug in the software, helping Rankin earn his prodigious commissions.
“The Chief Information Officer at National Midland took me to one side and said what a great tech team we had,” continued Rankin. “I told him we’d put our best people on the case to give him the best possible service – our commitment to quality and all that stuff.” Travis and Will had been the only people who were around at the time.
“Anyway, keep up the good work – we’re a winning team around here. Catch you later!” Rankin garbled out as his incisors worked on the other half of the buffalo wing. Travis caught something in those honied tones…almost as if he already knew what was in store.
“He probably made about twenty grand on that deal,” Will moaned. “How much of that does he think he owes us?”
“Not much,” he replied and headed off for another bottle of Becks.
He surveyed the crowd, panning intently across the converted warehouse. Everyone seemed so animated, as if it were a matter of preference to be there. He rued his weakness in being bullied, almost blackmailed into attending. Then he noticed a face he did not recognise, a face that stood out in the crowd. She had a certain dark mystery about her, hard at the edges but soft, almost frail underneath. He placed her as a new salesperson, or possibly someone in accounts. She was participating in the throng, but a calm detachment singled her out.

Getting to the drinks counter was going to be a challenge. Twenty or so techies had been clustered around it for at least fifteen minutes, working their way through the supplies of South African Semillon Chardonnay – hand-picked by the executives – and the cases of Becks – thrown in as an afterthought for the masses. Barging past the first cluster, he happened upon a small group chattering about the new version of Alterbank’s software, led by Noel Chatterton, Alterbank’s Managing Director.
Noel was a tall man with a big frame, obviously strong and healthy. His dress was straight out of Silicon Valley: all black flannel trousers, shirt and jacket – the only trace of colour was the silver buckle on his belt. Small grey flecks in dark brown hair - what Noel irritatingly referred to as “salt and pepper” - reinforced the impression.
“This is the one that’ll take us over the top,” Noel gleamed, then swilled a gulp of wine hard against his palate. “Nobody in our space has anything similar and it would take them maybe a year or so to get anywhere close.”
He cringed at the marketing spiel. He leaned over the counter and grabbed deep into the dustbin full of beer bottles and pulled one up.
“Travis, my man,” called Noel, interrupting his sermon at the drinks counter. “How’s it going? Getting any traction?”
An enthusiastic response was called for. “Slowly, but surely. Perhaps things are looking up,” he replied. “How are we doing at your end?” he asked politely, not exactly expecting an answer. Besides, a conversation with Noel at this stage in the proceedings would only be embarrassing.
“Anyone seen the bottle opener?” he inquired.
Nobody was listening, except Maria, the company’s marketing director, who smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders. He left the gathering to seek the opener elsewhere.

She was handling the bottle opener with some difficulty in a quiet corner at the counter. Oozing a wistful femininity, she was dressed in a grey pinstripe skirt and jacket, with one of those smart city-like pink shirts. Her hair was just above shoulder length, deep and dark with a middle parting. She wore dark rimmed glasses, thin rectangles holding in the lenses. His eyes responded to the pleasing aspect of her face, its gentle curves drawn straight from an artist’s hand. His senses registered confirmation of the initial attraction.
“Hi, could I use the opener after you?” he asked, adding, slightly awkwardly as an after-thought, “or should I open one for you?”
“No, that’s OK, I’m fine,” she declined. “I’ve used one before.”
“I’m impressed,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“How do you fit in round here?” he asked.
“I’m on the audit team, from KWC.” she replied. “We’re doing Alterbank’s year-end financials.” Alterbank had just completed its financial year-end: management had been underlining for weeks that “it was all on track.”
“Going well? Are we clean?” he asked. His guess at her profession had proved accurate.
“Now that would be telling,” she smiled, “and I’d probably have to kill you if I told you.” She seemed reasonably human for an accountant and he was reassured by her unruffled, light-hearted response.
“What do you do all day when you’re doing an audit?”
“Look at the accounts, customer and supplier invoices and contracts, receivables and payables, the assets – that sort of thing,” she answered. He watched the words of financial science dance from her narrow lips.
“Sounds fun.” He was not convinced. “And then what?”
“They get signed off, hopefully, and then we all go away.”
“I suppose someone has to do it,” he volunteered, trying his level best to sound intrigued. “Tough work. When is it all finished?”
“That depends…” she hesitated and glanced across the room. In profile her chin stood firm and strong against the graceful slope of her neck. “…in the next few days, I guess.”
“Here’s to a clean balance sheet,” he raised his bottle for a toast.
Her face lit up with a smile and she accepted his clink.
“What about you?” she asked. “I’m not sure what part you’re dressed for.”
Dress code had fallen into disrepair at Alterbank, partly driven by the dotcom free-for-all, the drive to ease up, hang loose, go create and exacerbated by management’s lack of direction as the company moved into the new building, afforded by its fatter balance sheet. Dress had evolved organically, folks wore what they want – a post New Economy sartorial anarchy. But you could still spot the salespeople a mile off. His own attire was difficult to interpret: T-shirt, baggy beige snowboarding pants, Caterpillar boots.
“I’m on the software side of things. I run some of our projects,” he stated, using the verb “run” to emphasise – just discreetly – a tad of importance, reinforced by the quietly understated use of “some”, instead of “all.” He toyed with the idea of announcing that Alterbank’s new software was his baby, of revealing his new role but Noel had insisted he keep it to himself. “I, well, we, make sure the software works, fix the problems.”
“Like a software trouble-shooter?”
“I guess so,” he replied, warming to the glamorous spin. “We dream it all up then work with the guys to get it done, I mean, built.” He stumbled as he surreptitiously caught a glimpse of a bright red bra strap as she leaned forward to gather a handful of peanuts.
She was smiling at him. He noticed little dimples.
“Do you like it here?” he asked.
“It’s great. I love working in the technology space. It’s a constant eye-opener and a million miles away from checking petroleum bills-of-lading for oil companies,” she groaned as if to reinforce her point.
“Never trust an auditor.”
Noel barged in, looked first at her and then rested his eyes on Travis. “You’re not discussing my expense accounts with Caroline, are you Travis?”
Travis did not warm to the interruption. “No,” he said, “wouldn’t dream of it”. He repeated her name in his mind and stored it away in his brain for future use.
“Do you work together?” she asked innocently.
“Travis is our software ace,” said Noel. “He designed all this stuff – whatever it takes, any time of day, right Travis?” Noel continued.
“Well, you could put it that way,” he mumbled.
“And then again? Seriously, Caroline,” Noel went on, “Travis is out there on the front-line, masterminding the landing force, holding the fort while the grenades are crashing on the beach.”
Noel concluded with a chortle and Travis cringed. Her fingers brushed back a lock of her hair, carefully slotting it between her ear and the leg of her glasses.

The clanging of spoon against glass interrupted the banter. A series of hushes echoed around. He tensed up – he knew what was coming. He had been given the nod about what would happen at the beer bash by Noel and told him to keep it to himself. He was torn between a cold blast of dread and the warmth of pride.
This was the moment for the statutory company news update from senior management. Intended as a motivation for the troops, the update was sometimes a grave attempt to dig the company out of a hole – lock, stock and barrel – by inciting everyone to pull together, work as a team and keep the customers happy. At other times, it was a sequence of awards, congratulations and pats on the back for sales people who’d closed a big deal, a secretary who’d worked late collating a proposal or a programming team that had completed a particular job on time.
Some occasions involved the presentation of the financial results, generally confusing most of the staff. Will was particularly fascinated by the financials, not that he understood them either. He was convinced management dressed up otherwise “dodgy” numbers. Whilst it always sounded positive, the day-to-day impact of the numbers was never entirely clear to most of the onlookers. Still, management loved to feel it was communicating, keeping spirits high.
“You know a lot of IT companies cook their books, don’t you?” Travis had simply smiled. “I get these email articles about US businesses which book deals when the contracts aren’t properly in the bag, trying to inflate their figures. The company always ends up in a pickle.”
“Financially speaking, of course. Only in America.”
“Wherever. They inflate their sales figures and beat up the accountants to get them to agree. The Directors aren’t going to object – they get all the praise from the stock market for being a great management team. Happens all the time.”
“Does it?” His patience was straining: he wanted to get the evening over and done with.
The Chairman kicked off proceedings when the noise had rippled away.
“Thank you, everyone. It is good to see both new faces and old. Most of them, I’m pleased to observe are wearing smiles,” said Hunter Maddingly.
The audience offered a polite, but faint, chuckle. The company was taking on staff right, left and centre in order to meet its ambitious growth targets. At least ten of the team would have joined since the last meeting and probably would not even know who Maddingly was. He was a commanding figure with broad shoulders, big chest and just enough of a belly to suggest the bon viveur. Now in his early sixties, he still exuded energy and presence. Invariably dressed in Saville Row blue pin-stripe suits, his impeccably starched white shirts – pure Jermyn Street - were double-cuffed and their lapels were held true with brass straighteners. Eschewing the belt, his trousers were supported by bright red braces. Standing now with both hands clasped behind his back to accentuate his chest, Maddingly’s feet could be observed pointing out at forty-five degree angles in their half-brogue Church shoes. But most striking was the mane of silver hair brushed acutely back from his forehead and slicked back over his ears and down the back of his head. He reminded Travis of Michael Douglas’ Gordon Gekko in Wall Street.
“I’ll be brief, then hand you over to Noel Chatterton,” Maddingly continued. “We’ve set out a very ambitious programme for Alterbank and we must deliver.”
He paused, eyeballing members of the audience, willing people to absorb the message.
“You’ll know that we need to double our top-line revenues this year, next year and the year after to meet our targets – and we have to show solid visibility on profitability for next year. No small feat from where we are now.”
His forefinger, cocked like a trigger, punched the air. Another pause. Then he smiled: broad and engulfing. The passionate fire in his eyes lit up his face, highlighting the creases in relief.
“The market is there and ready for the taking. You’ve already seen the huge impact on our stock price as we win these contracts. We’re hot right now, and we need to keep it that way. I’m especially excited about the recent contract win with National Midland – that really put us on the map, both with potential customers and with the City. I know we’ve got the right people, the right products and, let’s not forget, the finance to realise our vision. Everyone has their part to play and I know I can count on you all to execute.”
Travis rebelled at Maddingly’s grandiose, evangelical pitch. Maddingly frequented that distant, big picture world of visions and strategies, and probably made identical speeches several times a week, all for different businesses. The vigour of the chairman’s language and his blithe confidence was compelling; however, it lay in stark contrast to his lack of knowledge of what transpired in the computers the company operated. And then there was the money. Maddingly stood to make a fortune out of Alterbank, if it all worked out as planned, and he was the kind of man who would act quickly and decisively give himself the best shot possible. Travis, on the contrary, was more at home with the nuts and bolts of what he needed to do in the next few days.
Maddingly’s audience, nonetheless, was warm to the moment and produced the necessary feedback – a round of applause and a few cat-whistles. Maddingly patted the noise down with both palms and grinned approvingly. “Noel, over to you.”
“Thanks, Hunter, for your inspirational words,” started Noel. “I’m not going to take up much of your time either. As Hunter said, there’s quite a lot to be done in the coming weeks and months. I’d just like to remind ourselves of what our priorities are. By the end of the quarter, we must close two more customer deals – in the seven figure range – and I know Trevor Rankin’s team has a strong pipeline to cover this. This is the strongest indicator of progress for the company.”
Rankin and his sale team loved this, responding with a round of cheers and whistles.
“While the sales team spearhead the business, it’s actually the technical development and delivery teams who are the engine. They’re the folk who get the job done and help us towards our goal of 100% customer satisfaction. Many of their efforts go unrecognised, most people don’t even appreciate their contribution – although we’re all first to complain when something doesn’t go as planned.”
Travis could feel the sense of satisfaction spreading around the room as the technical teams got their moment. He noticed the difference in styles that Noel projected. One to one, Noel appeared informal, making lots of jokes. Standing in front of a crowd, he was “corporate”, restrained and used fashionable management-speak.
“And now, we’re at our most critical juncture in our history. We all need these teams to pull together hard, focus on delivery and, of course, quality. With the new deal we just won at National Midland, the stakes just got higher.”
This was code for more months of hard work, late nights and strained nerves for the designers, programmers and testers. It irked him, despite his recent news, at how the techies never got any recognition at all. Sales people got the glory for landing contracts, the technical staff just had to get on with it.
“Let me conclude this evening by singling out a silent hero,” said Noel.
Travis squirmed in his boots and could feel his hands going clammy. His heartbeat quickened.
The moment was upon him. He had to take stage centre, under the glare of the spotlights.

He had been dreading it for weeks, ever since Noel had broken the news at his annual review. There he had been, sitting nervously in Noel’s office, shoulders hunched, tired and frustrated, about to complain about the unrelenting pressure, considering his future.
“Travis, forget all that. I’m about to make you an important man,” Noel had said, smiling from his chair that he rocked to and fro.
“What do you mean?” he had asked, expecting some paltry word of thanks, a crumb of comfort.
“We’re all very pleased at your recent contribution at National Midland: we think the new deal will be worth millions of pounds in revenues over the next few years, let alone the tens of millions that it’ll put on Alterbank’s stock market valuation when news of the deal gets out.” Tentacles of curiosity had gripped harder.
“The Main Board has asked me to give you a significant promotion, with the title of Chief Technology Officer, a fifty percent pay increase and 50,000 additional stock options.”
He was stunned: his ears were playing tricks. Was that fifteen or fifty? His heart palpitated.
“Sorry?”
“Your pay will go up to fifty seven and a half K, with another ten K bonus.”
He had heard correctly the first time. None of his friends were earning anything remotely approaching that figure. He revelled in the numbers. He sat down in one of Noel’s designer leather chairs and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He had just been doing his job, enjoying it all, despite the slog. He would evaluate the mathematics on the options later, but it sounded a handsome reward. “On the Board” had a pleasing resonance.
“Thanks, Noel,” he had said with genuine gratitude, nodding his head. “This all sounds great. What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one. I told you when you joined that we hire the best and reward them well.”
He ummed in acknowledgement at the show of sympathy for the lost weekends and frayed nerves.
“I’d like to announce it at the beer-bash, if that’s alright. Keep it to yourself until then.”
He had actively not been looking forward to the announcement from that moment.

Travis didn’t dare look around the room at his colleagues – he would have to acknowledge their smiles. Instead, he concentrated on the patterns of the laces on his boots. He shot a quick glance at Caroline – her head turned away as if she might have been looking his way.
“Our state-of-the art new software system has put us in the vanguard of banking technology. We are global leaders, setting the agenda for the banks of the future. And one man’s vision has put us there. I’d like to single out Travis Connors for his contribution over the past year,” beamed Noel warmly.
Travis steered his eyes at Caroline again and this time caught her smiling at him.
“In particular, we have to thank Travis for his brilliance in designing the new self-service Internet banking system at National Midland Bank. Travis and his colleagues have worked like troopers to come up with the best technology and, as a result, we landed the biggest deal in town. You’ll all know how important National Midland is to Alterbank – it’s one of the most valuable customers anywhere in the world: eight million consumers will be using our software one way or another. Travis’ design was fundamental to winning the contract: the bank wanted the best and he designed it. So, will you all join me,” Noel concluded, “in congratulating Travis on his efforts.”
Noel kicked off a burst of applause. Travis, chin lowered, peered around the room, discreetly enjoying the recognition. It felt good, warming. Even his friend Will joined in with the congratulations. He may have come up with the ideas, created the designs, but it was Will who had ground out the code, completed the programming on time.
“At the same time,” continued Noel when the applause had died down, “I’d like to announce that in view of Travis’ stellar efforts over the past year, I’m thrilled to inform you that Travis has been promoted to Chief Technology Officer and will be joining the board of directors with immediate effect.”
He winced at the first public airing of his new title.
Noel beckoned. He was required to fight his way to the front of the throng to collect an award: a little bronze plaque, made up of the company’s name and logo, his full name – including his middle name, James – and the engraving “Elected to the Board, March 2001”. He was already planning to hide this item behind one of the three 17” screens at his workstation. Accompanying the plaque was an envelope upon which his name was typed. He shook Noel’s warm but strangely limp hand, keeping his eyes down.
“Thank you, Noel,” he mumbled, eyes lowered.
“Well done, Travis – keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, I’ll try.”
He sloped back into the crowd, receiving one or two back-slaps on the way. Approaching Will, his partner-in-crime, he lifted one hand to affect a high-five greeting. Will had obviously had one too many beers by this stage and they missed each other.
“This should be yours, Will,” he said, holding the plaque up for Will to inspect.
“I’m not really into things like that. Keep my head down and get on with it. Besides, you’re the boss.”
“Come on, I’d have been lost without you. If you hadn’t helped solve those problems in the software, I’d probably be out of a job.”
“Who suggested I check it out?”
“Well, you’ve got a point there,” Travis conceded, brushing back a clump of brown hair in a second of pride.
Noel joined them.
“Top man, Travis. Let me buy you a drink,” Noel joked.
“No, really, they’re on me.”
“I had to fight long and hard with the Chairman for that one,” admitted Noel.
He felt the muscles twitching under his skin. He’d designed it all, done all the hard work, put in the long hours, he’d been there consoling the bank’s team, promising – without knowing how – it would all be up and running on time. He deserved it.
“Thanks, Noel,” he forced a smile. “I appreciate it.”
“Well done, Travis,” Caroline approached them.
Her plaudits echoed more sweetly than all the other polite noises.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it on my own,” he said, gesturing at Will who managed a faint grin.
“It sounds like you’re one of the secret weapons round here,” she observed. “You and your team, I mean.”
“Fully loaded and ready to fire,” agreed Will.
“Catch you later, folks,” Noel signed. “I need a few minutes with Hunter,” and he elbowed his way off to the Chairman.
Will made the motion of looking at his watch – he’d done his duty and was ready to retire into his other universe. “I’m gone, as well. Congrats again, Travis – I’ll let you pay for the next pizza.”
“Sure,” agreed Travis. But his eyes had followed Noel, who had caught up with Maddingly and was whispering into his ear, one hand resting on the chairman’s shoulder. The two men looked over in his direction and Maddingly nodded.

When they were alone in the rumble of chatter and the clink of glasses at the edge of the entertainment zone, he suggested another drink. He opened two bottles of Becks and handed her one. His first swig of beer went down a treat.
“Is this how they do things at your place?” he asked.
“God, no – we’re far too big and proper.”
“Don’t they try and make you happy?”
“They have armies of people paid to do that – in Human Resources. They sit down with you for an hour every month, review your progress, how you feel, what ideas you have and so on,” she explained. “It’s all a bit formal. But it’s hardly as if we’re passionate about accountancy – it’s a job, training, that’s all. I mean, how can you possibly get excited about making balance sheets balance and proving it?”
“I thought that was what big business is all about?”
“No – it’s just a stepping stone.”
“To what?”
“Some people like to stick it out forever and make partner – they do it for the money and to avoid the limelight or challenge of anything else. Others disappear as soon as they’ve qualified – do it all for real in a business – and much more importantly, get involved, have other responsibilities.”
“What about you?”
“I’m the disappearing type.”
“Where will you go?”
“I quite like high-tech. It’s fun, lively, constantly changing. But you’ve got to put up with some real nerds though.”
“Programmers can be incredibly stimulating, once you pierce that dry exterior: it’s a well kept secret.”
“No, I don’t mean just programmers. All of them can be nerdy. Everyone’s so into the next big thing all the time. And the next big thing is expensive, late, doesn’t work and probably – if we’re honest – not needed in the first place. You boys dream up some great bandwagons and do a brilliant job of getting everyone else to jump on.”
“I don’t know why we bother,” he challenged.
He was used to this tirade, getting it all the time in one form or another: from his mates at the pub or on his Saturday morning scratch football team, from his parents when he bothered to discuss his career. Software is too expensive and never works, went the refrain. Bill Gates and his crew at Microsoft are a menace to society and are plotting the downfall of modern civilisation, ripping you off royally along the way. Folks just did not understand.
“I quite like it really,” she softened. “Despite all the bad things, it’s the place to be.”
She paused. He met her strong brown eyes. They did not blink.
“Why did you get into it, Travis?”
“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“Come on, Chief whatever-they-ares don’t just fall into it,” she teased.
He remembered what a mouthful his new title was.
“It’s not too bad for a philosopher who can tinker with computers. And I get paid for it.”
“A philosopher?”
He detected a new tone in her voice, affectionately inquisitive, perhaps.
“I have a second class degree in Philosophy.”
“A man with secrets and now a man at the top of the pile.”
He reflected for the tiniest of seconds that, yes, he was fairly high up the ladder and the thought was not unwelcome.
“And what does the future hold for the Chief-whatever-it-is?”
“Oh, we can’t afford that sort of speculation. Let me deal with the present first.”
“You are a philosopher.”
“More of a realist.”
“Some people can’t tell the difference.”
She seemed to be enjoying this as much as he was: jousting with words, taking pleasure in talking to someone for the sheer hell of it.
“Enough of me. What do you when you’re not cooking the books?” he shifted the focus away from himself.
“The usual things,” she said unhelpfully. “Work’s quite hard at the moment, so there’s not too much. Friends, pictures, parties – nothing exciting.”
What had he expected? Planning her barefoot trip across Antarctica?
“So are you excited about the next few months?” The ball fired back into his court.
“Well, I guess it’s make or break for the company. And it’ll be hard work. We’ve got some big targets to hit, software to build, places to go.”
He caught a delicate waft of her scent: fresh, lemony, the fragrances of summer.
“And I’ll be making sure the numbers add up. What do you think of Hunter Maddingly, the Chairman?”
“Couldn’t really say, I’ve never been face to face with him. He’s not my style, but I sort of like it, though.”
“He’s very smooth,” Caroline said.
“Smooth?”
“But I’ve heard he’s tough as nails, ruthless as they come,” she continued. “I guess that’s why they like him in the City.”
“City’s not my territory, I’m afraid.”
“Well, they sort of have their circle of people and money. Hunter is supposed to be in there with the big pension funds and their managers, as well as the banks and brokers. Alterbank looks like it could well be his most successful venture.”
His new role was promising to suck him into a brave new world of big money, the workings of the City and the tycoons behind it. He would have to learn fast: he always did.
“I suppose we must be lucky to have him on board,” he replied.
“More like the other way round – he owns by far and away the most shares in Alterbank – a cool 43%.”
“You’re well informed.”
As an option-holder, he now had a direct interest in the company’s shares, who owned what. As its auditor, she would have access to all sorts of privileged information about the company’s financials. An exciting pairing, he mused.
“It’s my job. We’ve just finished the analysis of Alterbank’s shareholders, so I should jolly well hope I do know.”
His eyes darted from side to side, checking discreetly for listeners. She laughed it off.
“Don’t worry. It’s all in the Annual Report and all above board. You’d be surprised what I know,” Caroline taunted. “How much they all make, for instance.”
His eyes popped.
“How on earth do you know that? That’s highly confidential! We’re forever being told “mum’s the word” on pay – especially raises.”
“Read the Report of the Remuneration Committee, my friend. It’s absolutely the first place you should visit. Truth is for everyone and we don’t want any fat cat payoffs, do we? Besides, as Alterbank’s shares are owned by the man on the Clapham Omnibus, although he may not know it, the general public needs to know that its money is being spent wisely. It’s one of the Stock Exchange basic rules.”
“Remind me to read the next report.”
“Try it. You open it, look at the sales revenues, compare them with last year, look at the profit, compare it with last year, skim through the Chairman’s outlook statement for signs of confidence or fear and then it’s off to the share ownership and the Directors’ remuneration. I could probably tell you how many stock options you’ve got in Alterbank, if you’d really like.”
He baulked at the notion that she might know more about him than she let on. He was exposed, but at least he was the proud owner of a princely 65,000 options. When he’d started, Alterbank had lured him with 10,000 options and because – as his personnel records testified – “in the view of the Directors, Travis has made a significant contribution to the company’s progress and success over a sustained period,” Alterbank had dished out another 5,000 just before the company went public, and now, armed with the extra 50,000 from his promotion, he was sitting on a gold mine.
“Thanks for the offer. Perhaps you can influence my next salary increase?”
“You’ve hit the limit of my acumen, I’m afraid.”
“Or the limit of your candour?”
“No, I genuinely don’t know. It’s not an area we cover – future remuneration practices.”
He returned to safer territory. “Who else owns shares in the company?”
“The usual suspects. Big institutions like Scottish Widows, Prudential and Merrill Lynch, specialist fund managers like Aberdeen and Invesco. I think they’re all above the three percent mark.”
“What about in the company itself?”
“Apart from Hunter, there’s nobody really.”
He noticed a slight hesitation.
“Noel owns a few, about five percent, I think.”
“He was in right at the beginning, though.”
“I believe so.”
“What do you make of him?” He knew she knew him.
“He’s a nice guy,” she was non-committal. “Always everywhere,” she offered by way of additional insight.
“You don’t have to work with him,” he stuck his neck out.
She blinked, then looked at him, silently, chin hardening.

The evening was beginning to wind down. A few had left after the speeches, the early majority had waited a seemly half-an-hour or so before heading off. The late majority was bidding its farewells now. Alterbank’s more dedicated technical staff returned to their workstations, irrespective of the adverse productivity effects of the alcohol.
He and Caroline were now isolated at the bar counter, an island of intimacy in the corporate ocean. Only two tables of people left. Feeling conspicuous, he suggested they join the noisier of the two. Noel, Maria, and Rankin were arguing away about the technology competition from North America.
“At the end of the day, as we say in software, they’re crap,” boasted Noel.
“A fine insight, succinctly expressed,” applauded Rankin.
“On that note,” concluded Noel, “I need to review some of the work in progress calculations for the financials before I knock off.”
Noel turned to Caroline and smiled. There was a warmth in his eyes. “Could you spare me a few ticks and explain some of your headcount and utilisation assumptions in KWC’s worksheets?”
“Sure,” Caroline replied.
Noel’s move had spiked his canons. He felt a twinge of disappointment at these words and was that a faint blush he detected on here face?
Noel and Caroline made off from the entertainment zone, squeezing between one of the football pitches and an out-of-place café-table. Noel held back and gestured for Caroline to proceed through the gap first. As she passed, Travis noticed the follow-through of Noel’s arm as his hand rested briefly on her right shoulder, then slid quickly, but confidently, down her back before releasing her. She knew Noel better than she had let on.

Later, he would remember with bittersweet pangs that miniscule gesture which spoke volumes: intimacy and ownership in one short movement of the hand. He tried to console himself with the idea that it was all perfectly innocent and above board, that he had a chance. Still, he had to look on the bright side. He had just received a massive upwards hike at the company he had joined only a few years back. With it came an almost embarrassing pay rise, which would take away many of his financial pressures. The company was on a roll, and he was flattered at the idea of being a senior player in one of the hottest companies on the market. The share options meant that he would acquire the sort of capital that would enable him to pay off the mortgage. He allowed himself a broad smile when he eventually left the office to head home.