Yearn: Tales of Lust and Longing

“I don’t give a shit, Edward, two major banks went down today, there are rumors from Sydney to Shanghai, everyone’s expecting the Dow to crash through the fucking floor. I’ve never seen it this bad. They’re saying it’s going to be worse than twenty-nine—more like 1890! They’re talking the end of the financial world here—get to your fucking desk! I have clients here who are threatening to kill me first and then themselves. Edward, do you hear me? Edward?”

But Eddy was already running for a cab.

• • •

The trading floor was mayhem, a flurry of panicked shouting and running suits. Some of the traders had worked all night; some were already slumped over leather armchairs catching a nap between markets. At the central hub there was a huddled bunch of anxious-looking young traders with eyes glued to the canopy of monitors that blinked down at them as they screamed into their phones. All the flashing figures on the screens were in red—the plummeting share prices from Tokyo to Shanghai through to Sydney—hemorrhaging funds as if the money god himself had slashed his wrists and now stood waiting atop the New York stock exchange like King Kong, blood cascading down onto the pavement below.

Eddy bolted to his desk, splashing his hand with scalding hot coffee from the Starbucks container he clutched—he barely noticed. Once at the desk he booted up his monitors and began selling and selling and selling. . . . The world was in freefall; it was like clutching at snow. Eddy watched blue-chip stocks melting in value before his eyes as the switchboard was jammed with panicking clients trying to get through to their traders.

Just before ten in the morning the Chinese businesswoman’s assistant phoned to tell him she was canceling but not to sell any of her employer’s portfolio—in fact she ordered him to buy up gold, silver, and iron ore. Shouting over the raised voices of his colleagues, Eddy asked if she was serious about not selling the stocks that were plummeting. At the other end the phone was handed to the businesswoman herself.

“I tell you . . .” she said—he could barely understand her heavy accent—“you are to buy now. Ignore panic. The calm captain does not sink the ship. My assistant will text you the stocks.” Her melodious voice seemed to narrow the chaotic room around him down to a desert island on which he was standing holding the phone.

“You are sure?” he ventured.

“I am sure. I never do anything without great calculation—at least not business,” she replied somewhat enigmatically.

A minute later his phone beeped to announce the texted instructions. In the ten minutes he spent purchasing the shares they devalued by fifteen percent, but a grain of curiosity had been planted, one he put at the back of his mind in order to deal with the ensuing chaos. It was bedlam. At one point he had the head of the biggest iron ore exporter in the world on hold while he calmed down the majority stockholder of the same company on the other line. But strangely, despite his lack of sleep, Eddy had never felt such clarity and emotional integration; it was as if the barrow boy, starving in his ambition, desperate for reinvention, could now openly triumph with his street sense and chameleon abilities. He was himself, he noted as his fingers flicked wildly over the computer keys. His body, although exhausted and now starving, still glowed with postcoital warmth. He’d come home.

Just before the market closed, Eddy glanced again at the list of commodities the Chinese woman had bought into. Using his own cash, he had purchased a considerable number of shares, which were now trading at half the price he’d bought them at three hours earlier. He then left the office whistling, much to the astonishment of his fellow traders, many of whom were contemplating their own demise in the fallout that was bound to follow.

• • •

Eddy caught a cab to Cynthia’s Chelsea Mews cottage and arrived unannounced. Cynthia was curled up on the couch, drying her toenails while watching a reality TV fashion show. She leapt up as Eddy entered the room.

“Where have you been? I tried ringing last night. What happened, sweetie? I was really worried.”

“I walked around all night. I had to sort out some things in my head, and then the stock market this morning . . .”

Eddy collapsed onto the small chaise longue that he had previously associated with good taste but, for the first time, now recognized as chintzy. It was also extremely impractical and uncomfortable, characteristics he’d tolerated before, assuming one had to suffer for style. Now he found himself craving the old battered leather couch that was the one piece of furniture his father prized.

“I know, I’ve been following it all day. Even Daddy’s worried. You were a big hit with him last night, by the way. I thought you might have overdone it with the Oxford story, but we pulled it off, Edward! Isn’t that amazing?” She sat down beside him, nuzzling up. Eddy pulled away despite himself.

“Are you okay, sweetie? I mean, everything is okay with us, isn’t it?”

There was a slight pause. Eddy felt as if the room had started to recede from him, as if he was drunk or suffering from vertigo.

“Cynthia . . .”

Cynthia studied his face and now, suddenly too nervous to hear his answer, spoke over him.

“Daddy said you had real grit. He’s even offered to put you up for the Carlton House. Of course I’ll have to recruit a few of the Pony Club to substantiate your story. What was the name of the school you went to again? The real school?”

He sensed the question could possibly be a trap—Cynthia might tolerate a grammar school background but certainly not a secondary modern. Eddy fingered the signet ring they’d bought for him at Christopher Graffs (he’d paid) when they’d bought her engagement ring. He pulled away. “Sorry, I don’t feel very well.”

He rushed to the bathroom and locked himself in. Inside he reached into his jacket for his BlackBerry and dialed Janey’s number. The line rang and rang. Eventually an automated voice came on to tell him the number had been disconnected. How was that possible? She had only given him the number that morning. Dread began to jangle his shot nerves as his emotions narrowed down to one desire only—to see Janey.

Outside Cynthia had started to rattle the door handle.

“Eddy, are you okay? Eddy?” The concern in her voice made him feel instantly guilty. Panicked, he climbed out of the bathroom window and bolted down the back lane toward a cab.

He directed the cab to the brothel, telling the driver he’d give him an extra ten quid if he got there in under ten minutes. They were there in seven. After instructing him to wait outside, Eddy ran into the building.

The receptionist, cool as ever, looked up from her desk.

“Janey, is she here?” His heart was now in his throat, throbbing uncomfortably.

“Who?”