Mark released Jimmy from the mundane. He was leading a double life, one minute a working class lad down the local and the next rubbing shoulders with the stupidly rich at the Yacht Club. Everything was cranked to excess, designer suits, loaded expense accounts a veritable fat cat playground with no culpability. They’d rinse the Arbitrage by night, breakfast at the Waldorf then grab a shirt from Moss Bros and get a pat on the back for coming in early. He’d walk pass the trading desks every morning, park his briefcase and watch the frenetic activity unfold as millions of dollars’ worth of trades were bought and sold. They were making the rich, filthy rich and getting plump in the process. No matter if their client made or lost money they’d earn their commission. All they had to do is inspire volume, something the adept desk ops were extremely good at. It seemed all too easy and ever so slightly obscene but no one cared about ethics, profit was the only concern. It was an all-consuming time; they dived in and devoured the spoils till their bloated bellies popped.
Jimmy became addicted to the lifestyle. He received a 300% bonus and blew it on a TVR sports car, bespoke Zegna suits and renting a flat in affluent Notting Hill. Jimmy embraced his new material lifestyle. The old proletariat was buried and in its place a changing man with middle class values.
He moved in new circles but remained rooted; his friends were never far from mind. Prakesh came down from Manchester University for spring break and marvelled at his new found wealth, the flat, the amazing car in the underground carpark.
“I thought you said it was all shallow and material?”
“That’s something you say when you got fuck all.”
“I am wasting my time at college.”
“I got lucky. Come to lunch tomorrow, my treat.”