I Was Beaten Up By an Eighties Stockbroker
The highs and lows of the hedge-fund lifestyle
From where I’m sitting now, in this ornate room, you can see Edinburgh Castle through the window. Another grey, overcast day. Every time someone opens the door, a blast of North Sea wind blows cold through the room, swirling around the table where I sit. Chilling.
People look at me, stare even. They think they know who I am, but they’re so shallow. They really have no clue. I know they’d like to have me because I’m still beautiful and my reputation precedes me. Expensive. Complicated. Seen with the famous and powerful. Then they look a bit closer and turn away in disgust.
I’m damaged.
They don’t see my hidden depths. The things they think they know about me are not what make me interesting. It’s what I’ve seen. Where I’ve been.
True, my beauty is fading now, but back in the eighties, I was seen around town on the arm of a high-flying stockbroker who thought lunch was for wimps and who took me screeching at top speed around the English countryside in a fin-tailed Porsche 911. He was so proud to show me off and I revelled in it. Glorious days.
I overheard the deals he made, the boys’ gossip, the illegal but clever tricks that made the city rich while the IRA bombs…
