his bloody dressing gown doing nothing.
Irritated, she turned to the middle pages for some light relief. There was a colour photo of a well-known actress leaving a top London nightspot. The paper detected âtell-tale dimpled skinâ on the back of her thighs. She was rarely without a cigarette in hand, the paper tutted, and that might explain it.
Becca groaned. Give her a break. They hardly ever subjected men to this treatment. She looked more closely at the photo. It was true, though, the actress did have cellulite. And she was so young, too. She resolved to buy some of that expensive anti-cellulite cream that Nic recommended the next time she was in John Lewis. It was worth a try.
Becca checked the clock on her computer screen. Nearly time for her conference call with a UK property analyst. Sheâd have to engage her brain. Her team was divided by asset classes: Dave headed up the equities team, Rob bonds and cash, while she took a special interest in alternatives, including derivatives and property.
As Chief Investment Officer, she was involved with the management of almost $57 billion of assets globally on behalf of pension funds and other institutional investors. UK commercial property appeared to have peaked and the IPD index in July showed negative capital returns for the first time in a long time.
The smart investors had been trying to reduce volatility and raise cash since the beginning of this year but properties were getting harder to sell and yields had already shifted up by 1 per cent. With the turmoil in the credit markets it would be interesting to see how the highly leveraged investors (who had taken the market away from institutional investors) would react.
The half-hour call went reasonably well. She wrote up the notes immediately afterwards and posted them on the intranet. Since hers was a global company, they posted all fund-manager meeting notes on to a global site so that members of the four regional investment teams (Australasia, Europe, North America and Emerging Markets) could review them straightaway.
She caught up with her management team on her way to get a cup of tea from the canteen. Back at her desk, she did a quick Ocado shop. She felt a bit guilty but the children had to eat and when else was she supposed to do it? Besides, it didnât take long. She was an expert. Then she rang Rob, who was based in New York, to catch up with him, too. Heâd been touching base with some specialist credit hedge fund managers to see how theyâd fared in the market turmoil.
It was 7.30 p.m. before she finally left the office. Because of the US time difference sheâd had to wait to speak to several clients. Sheâd saved a few of the market updates that had come in by email during the day on her BlackBerry to read on the train. Before heading home sheâd checked Bloomberg to see where European markets closed and how the US was going that day.
She was relieved, when she stepped out into the cool evening air, to find that it had stopped raining. She wouldnât need to get her umbrella out. She scurried along the darkening streets, click-clacking in her high heels towards Bank tube station, before dropping down into the sweaty bowels of London to catch the drain back to Waterloo.
She hadnât thought about James and Alice all day, sheâd been too busy. But now she felt a stab of longing; she hoped Alice would still be awake when she returned, even though it would be naughty of Monica, the au pair, not to have got her to sleep earlier.
The tube was full, despite the time of night, and Becca couldnât get a seat. She held on to the rail overhead, bumping occasionally into the short woman beside her in a beige mac.
âSorry,â Becca apologised.
The woman smiled. âNo problem. Is it always this packed? Iâm not used to these crowds. Iâm only in London for a couple of days for meetings.â
Becca started. The woman was from the North-East,
Irritated, she turned to the middle pages for some light relief. There was a colour photo of a well-known actress leaving a top London nightspot. The paper detected âtell-tale dimpled skinâ on the back of her thighs. She was rarely without a cigarette in hand, the paper tutted, and that might explain it.
Becca groaned. Give her a break. They hardly ever subjected men to this treatment. She looked more closely at the photo. It was true, though, the actress did have cellulite. And she was so young, too. She resolved to buy some of that expensive anti-cellulite cream that Nic recommended the next time she was in John Lewis. It was worth a try.
Becca checked the clock on her computer screen. Nearly time for her conference call with a UK property analyst. Sheâd have to engage her brain. Her team was divided by asset classes: Dave headed up the equities team, Rob bonds and cash, while she took a special interest in alternatives, including derivatives and property.
As Chief Investment Officer, she was involved with the management of almost $57 billion of assets globally on behalf of pension funds and other institutional investors. UK commercial property appeared to have peaked and the IPD index in July showed negative capital returns for the first time in a long time.
The smart investors had been trying to reduce volatility and raise cash since the beginning of this year but properties were getting harder to sell and yields had already shifted up by 1 per cent. With the turmoil in the credit markets it would be interesting to see how the highly leveraged investors (who had taken the market away from institutional investors) would react.
The half-hour call went reasonably well. She wrote up the notes immediately afterwards and posted them on the intranet. Since hers was a global company, they posted all fund-manager meeting notes on to a global site so that members of the four regional investment teams (Australasia, Europe, North America and Emerging Markets) could review them straightaway.
She caught up with her management team on her way to get a cup of tea from the canteen. Back at her desk, she did a quick Ocado shop. She felt a bit guilty but the children had to eat and when else was she supposed to do it? Besides, it didnât take long. She was an expert. Then she rang Rob, who was based in New York, to catch up with him, too. Heâd been touching base with some specialist credit hedge fund managers to see how theyâd fared in the market turmoil.
It was 7.30 p.m. before she finally left the office. Because of the US time difference sheâd had to wait to speak to several clients. Sheâd saved a few of the market updates that had come in by email during the day on her BlackBerry to read on the train. Before heading home sheâd checked Bloomberg to see where European markets closed and how the US was going that day.
She was relieved, when she stepped out into the cool evening air, to find that it had stopped raining. She wouldnât need to get her umbrella out. She scurried along the darkening streets, click-clacking in her high heels towards Bank tube station, before dropping down into the sweaty bowels of London to catch the drain back to Waterloo.
She hadnât thought about James and Alice all day, sheâd been too busy. But now she felt a stab of longing; she hoped Alice would still be awake when she returned, even though it would be naughty of Monica, the au pair, not to have got her to sleep earlier.
The tube was full, despite the time of night, and Becca couldnât get a seat. She held on to the rail overhead, bumping occasionally into the short woman beside her in a beige mac.
âSorry,â Becca apologised.
The woman smiled. âNo problem. Is it always this packed? Iâm not used to these crowds. Iâm only in London for a couple of days for meetings.â
Becca started. The woman was from the North-East,
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