Page 7 of Pride and Privilege

Adjoa was across the room, standing near a plush purple sofa and some tall ferns, the glass wall reflecting the room’s golden lights behind her. It was night outside, but beyond the glass were strings of lights in the roof garden and the lights of all London far below and beyond. Adjoa was chatting to Monica Bokahnson, the CFO—an indomitable woman in her fifties who had the healthily ageing air of an ex-tennis pro. If she knew how to smile, she would have looked right at home presenting the BBC’s Wimbledon coverage.

Adjoa was toying with the idea of switching to accountancy—researching courses and career entry points in much the same way Poppy was. So talking to BG’s Chief Financial Officer made perfect sense. It was why Adjoa was here—it was how she had persuaded Poppy to come with her. Social networking. Making contacts. Getting your name and face out there. And Poppy should have been doing exactly the same thing. Look: there was John Fisher, head of Research. But what if Poppy went up to him and they got talking and he frowned at hearing her accent—even though she did her best to mask it at work—and asked where she went to school, where she went to university, what her parents did?

She could lie, of course.Oh, yah, I grew up in a little cottage just outside Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire. Nothing fancy, you know. Grade II listed, terrible nuisance when we needed to get the swimming pool extended…

Poppy snorted. Then she started with shock, spilling some of her drink, because a tall, immaculately suited man said in a deep, dark voice, “Don’t suppose you’d mind sharing the joke? This party could do with some laughter.”

Aubrey Ford.

She knew him—or knewofhim. Of course she did. He was friends with Roscoe Blackton. Famous by association. Also, they’d once shared five minutes of exquisitely awkward conversation in a lift. She wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to subject himself to more.

“Oh. No. No joke.” She changed her glass to her other hand, attempting to surreptitiously wipe the spilled drink from her hand onto her skirt.

“Let me guess,” Aubrey said with a nod across the room to where Roscoe was holding court, laughing and chatting with a group of people. Three of them were clients. Total net worth in the billions. Now he was talking to an actualduke. And Poppy was wearing a skirt from a charity shop and a supermarket multipack blouse. “You’re deciding what theme tune plays in his mind when he walks into a room. My money’s onShaft. PossiblyWalking on Sunshine.”

Poppy’s shocked laugh made the drink catch in her throat. She coughed, looked at Aubrey wide-eyed.

“Come on.” Aubrey leant in, faux-earnest. “You have to laugh at the man to keep him humble. Consider it a type of public service.”

“I think you can get away with it. I might get in trouble.”

“Not with me.”

She didn’t quite trust his slow smile. Or rather, she trusted she knew exactly what it meant. Because one of Aubrey Ford’s other claims to fame was cutting a swathe through the female half of BG as broad as Roscoe’s.

“You supervised Roscoe’s internship, didn’t you?” she asked.

Aubrey straightened and sipped his drink, perhaps disappointed by the conversational swerve but politely going with it. “Technically, yes, but rather in the same manner a tail wags the dog. Looking for salacious details?”

“No, I’m just…” Whatwasshe doing? Diverting Aubrey from getting his flirt on? Attempting some ham-fisted social networking? Grasping at straws? “I…erm… I have a friend. Who’s interested in working here. Probably in research, to start with. A junior analyst. But they might want to work their way up into Portfolio Management. I don’t suppose you’d have any advice? For someone like that?”

He gave her a slow look. “Right. Well… A relevant degree, of course. And a lot of our juniors come to us with MAs, or some work experience, too. Interning is a good start.”

“But do you think… Would…like…maybe a demonstration portfolio of some kind, sample analyses and things… If they could put together something like that for their application… Demonstrate their skill somehow without qualifications… Would that ever be enough?”

Aubrey frowned thoughtfully. “No qualifications at all?”

“Beyond the bare minimum.”

“It’s far less common now. But we’ve had people join us at the junior level who have a less…traditional background.”

“Really?”

Aubrey shrugged. “I didn’t complete my degree.”

“You…? Really? And you just applied for a job here?”

“Well. I got lucky. My uncle’s friend was working here at the time. He got me through the door.”

“Oh,” said Poppy, hope plummeting. “Of course.”

“It’s very competitive,” said Aubrey with a hint of apology. “Fiercelycompetitive, even for people with the right qualifications. Having a personal connection is always going to help you stand out of the crowd.”

“And without that? And with no degree?”

“You might need a miracle.”

Poppy was gone by the time Roscoe managed to escape Andrew. He was relieved to see that Aubrey remained, leaning with one elbow on the bar, surveying the room with his usual inscrutable expression. Roscoe joined him. Ordered a bourbon. Took a sip large enough to make him cough.

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