Michael Fitzwilliams gazed out at the clear blue summer sky and breathed in deeply. He had never felt so good. The sensation of wellbeing had little to do with the air, which was anything but fresh; endlessly recycled through a vast and complex system of ducts, filters and cooling machines, pumped by huge fans to the gleaming glass dome from a powerful air-conditioning plant that functioned non-stop, twenty four hours a day, noiselessly, many floors beneath the banker’s expensively shod feet.
Four years had passed since his decision to move the corporate headquarters of the Irish Netherlands Bank Ltd to the futuristic tower that dominated the City of London’s skyline. Four years during which the fortunes of what was in effect an Anglo-Dutch banking group had progressed in leaps and bounds, assuring its place as a player to be counted with in the City’s square mile. Four years that had seen the bank’s profits rise to heights unimagined by Fitzwilliams’ predecessors, and four years of continuous expansion.
Wags were heard call the bank’s prominent headquarters Fitzwilliams’ member. They were probably not far off the mark; the banker had grown so used to success he felt invulnerable, unstoppable. His eyrie, perched on the glinting peak, was his proud symbol of success, visible for the less well endowed to look up to and envy.
That summer morning it seemed as though nothing could the stop the progress of the bank; profit forecasts from its three geographical poles: London, Dublin and Amsterdam, were glowing and the future looked assured. It was a little more than a decade since Fitzwilliams’ uncle, David Castlemain, had dispatched his promising nephew to England to take over the development of UK mortgage activities. Then when fate unexpectedly intervened Fitzwilliams was thrust to the top and under his guiding hand the once modest Irish bank underwent a stunning transformation.
It was Friday, July 27, and schools were breaking up for the summer holidays. On the business front the silly season was about to start. Not much ever happened during the holidays and Fitzwilliams saw little to prevent him from heading down to Poole, as planned, for a week’s break on his yacht, the Marie Gallant II.
The CEO returned to his desk and thumbed through the activity reports his secretary had placed ready for his perusal. His thoughts were still fixed on his plans for the coming week when he stopped to glance at the interim report from the Northern Rock; market leader and one of his competitors in the mortgage sector. They announced upbeat trading results with a positive business outlook for the second half.
Northern Rock reported mortgages up almost fifty percent compared to the same period the previous year, That was equivalent to nearly twenty percent of all new mortgage policies sold in the UK. The mortgage lender promised shareholders it would boost its dividends by thirty percent, and reported residential lending remained low risk while sales growth from its core mortgage business was good.
The only slightly negative note concerned the signs of an upward movement in money market borrowing rates, which could be somewhat bothersome and possibly weigh on year end profits if the trend continued. He put the report to one side for his secretary to file away, then looking at his watch he picked up his phone and called Pat Kennedy, the bank’s number two.
‘Pat! All set?’
‘Already?’
‘George will be outside to pick us up at eleven.’
‘It’s a pity our roof isn’t flat. The helicopter could pick us up without our having to fight our way through all the traffic.’
‘Stop moaning Pat. We’ll be in Poole for lunch.’
George Pike, their driver, made good time to the Battersea Heliport in spite of the struggle through London’s late morning traffic tangle. Not that the time made any great difference, Fitzwilliams had called ahead so that the pilot would be cleared for take off as soon as they arrived.
Battersea Heliport and the City Airport were near at hand ensuring Fitzwilliams and his key staff rapid hassle-free transport to any UK or European destination. The bank’s Gulfstream executive jet and Agusta helicopter provided a daily standby service, linking the bank’s key business centres and more important regional offices together.
Pike dropped them off and then headed for Putney and the M3. He with the Bentley would be on call during the week in Poole, ferrying Fitzwilliams’ friends to and from the airport and for their shopping trips into Bournemouth.
The flight took less than an hour and once landed the ground hostess handed Fitzwilliams the keys to his Porsche, which was waiting outside of the private terminal. Twenty minutes later they were at the banker’s waterfront home in Sandybanks.
They quickly dropped off their affairs with housekeeper and shed their bespoke City uniforms for weekend casual attire, then the transformed bankers strolled over to the boat pier where a semi-rigid was waiting to shuttle them out to the Marie Gallant II. Their week’s holiday was all set to go, starting with a deck party that evening on the luxury yacht. The weather was great and the five day forecast announced an anticyclone over southern England with clear skies and temperatures in the mid to upper twenties.