27. Dex

The way the sunlight hits the verdant wilderness of Hyde Park today is pretty spectacular, and my parents have a first-class view of its majesty from their lovely terrace. There's no doubt London is gentler, prettier, than Manhattan. It's less frenetic, and therefore less confronting.

I can almost breathe here.

‘So, spill it,' Dad says as he sips his coffee across from me. ‘How've you found the first week?'

Mum and Belle have disappeared into my parents' bedroom to examine Mum's latest shipment from her personal shopper. She and Dad have a black-tie gala to go to next week, and she wants my sister's opinion, so it's just us men on the terrace.

Work is always our go-to conversation topic. It's where we have common ground. Dad is the Chief Investment Officer of a large London-headquartered investment firm, and I genuinely enjoy discussing all things finance with him. He's a veteran in the industry with an impeccable track record.

He may have been disappointed to see me leave Goldman before achieving that elusive partnership status—Loeb partner doesn't have the same cachet as Goldman Sachs partner when he's dining out on his son's success—but he recognises the size of the opportunity I face.

I cross one ankle over the opposite knee. ‘Fine. Challenging. The culture's a lot more relaxed than GS, which is a good and bad thing. But I've been seriously impressed by their research.'

All investment banks have Investment Research divisions, which conduct research on the thousands of companies whose stocks trade in the public markets. The research analysts look not only at the companies' fundamentals but at the valuations of their stocks, and usually issue Buy, Hold or Sell ratings accordingly. It's precisely this kind of service that the fund managers at investment firms like Dad's pay the banks for.

‘Agreed. That's where they really punch above their weight,' Dad agrees. ‘I assume they're desperate for a piece of the Wolff action?'

‘Obviously. They've been pitching for months. Dunno what their chances are. Their research is their strongest card.'

God knows, everyone's desperate for a piece of the Wolff deal, but the bulge-bracket banks are all over it, too. I have no idea if Loeb will score a place on the ticket. And I really fucking resent the fact that the merest mention of Wolff makes me think of Max Hunter and then of Darcy.

I shrug off the mental image of her marked neck. Of her graceful fingers going to cover the bruising.

‘What else?' Dad asks. ‘I assume they've sorted out their culture over there.'

He's referring to the infamous City incident from a few years ago, when Loeb's then Head of Equities, an Italian guy called Lorenzo Beneventi, was accused of sexual misconduct by multiple female employees and was fired. It was a scandal whose ripples were felt across the pond, and Loeb's been diligently cleaning up its culture and repairing its tarnished reputation ever since.

‘They're squeaky clean,' I assure him. ‘I spent a full day this week being briefed on cultural, diversity and inclusion issues. For a smaller bank, they do it well. I was impressed.'

In fact, I considered it a day very well spent. The sessions I and other new joiners from all parts of the firm underwent were fully thought out and perfectly executed. It seems the firm has a thriving, and extremely active, LGBTQ+ community for which it's become a City poster child, and the spectrum of support, dialogue and education around such issues is admirable.

Obviously, as the head of one of the bank's largest divisions, I'll do everything in my power to promote and celebrate and advocate for every single one of my subordinates, even if I am a cisgender, straight white male and therefore a less than ideal role model.

My father, however, is rolling his eyes. ‘I can only imagine what they're force-feeding you. My advice, son, is to take it all with a pinch of salt.

‘Clearly, they can't have weak-willed idiots like Beneventi running amok and indulging in the pleasures of the flesh when he's on the clock, but, quite honestly, the expectation these days that we should all pander to these deviants in the workplace is utterly ridiculous.'

I'm so appalled, so revolted, I almost drop my coffee cup. I return it to the low table between us and unfold my leg, planting my foot squarely on the floor.

For fuck's sake.

‘Dad. That's a completely unacceptable thing to say,' I say. I don't miss how my barely controlled rage is making my voice shake.

He deliberately misses my point. ‘It's just us. Relax. No one from HR is breathing down our necks.'

‘That's not what I mean,' I grit out. ‘You can't call people deviants. It's extremely offensive, even if there's no one but me to hear it.'

He raises his eyebrows in a you can't be serious way. ‘I didn't realise you'd got so touchy. The Americans really did a number on you, didn't they?'

There's no point in having this conversation. Zero. At least, there's no point in trying to say or do anything that will change my dad's mind. His beliefs, always religiously devout and socially conservative, have moved so far right over the past decade or two that he's basically a Catholic Fascist these days, if that's a thing. He operates in a terrifying alternate universe of dogma and defensiveness and us-and-them, where diversity of thought or identity is a threat, plain and simple.

But not being able to change his mind doesn't mean staying quiet. I want it on record between the two of us that I'm not on board with his bigoted bullshit. Eight years of physical distance between us has given me the gift of emotional perspective. I'm not afraid of him, and I'm not afraid to call him out when he crosses the line.

If my little sister can put her foot down and live her life the way she wants, then I can damn well stand up to him in conversation.

‘I'm not touchy,' I tell him now. ‘I'm offended on behalf of the people you're insulting. Jesus, it never fails to astonish me how you can be so excessively pious and so goddamn prejudiced at the same time. It's unbelievably hypocritical.'

‘Don't take the Lord's name in vain in front of me,' he snaps.

Seriously? Jesus is the only thing he got from what I just said to him?

‘How about I don't blaspheme and you don't call our fellow children of God deviants, hmm?' I rest my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands so tightly my knuckles turn white, because there's something about this smug, narrow-minded prig that makes me fucking feral.

‘It was a turn of phrase, son,' he says, and he looks almost amused at the state I'm working myself up into. I remind myself he's always done this: he's always turned things on their head to suggest it's the other party, not him, who's out of line.

Gaslighting bastard.

‘Words have power,' I say quietly. ‘Nothing is just a turn of phrase.'

He grows serious. ‘Look. Our society is in decline. Rapid decline. Sacred foundational building blocks of our very civilisation, like faith, and gender, are being undermined. It's insidious, and it's dangerous, and it's everywhere.

‘Do I think people who call themselves homosexual or transexual are evil? No, no I don't. I truly, in my heart, believe they're sick, and I pray for them every day and every night, I'll have you know. I pray they'll find strength in God's presence and comfort in His love and that the light of redemption will shine upon them.

‘But I do think they're subversive. I think they're subverting our values, and the values of innocent children, and it's all gone too far. We're at a tipping point in society, make no mistake about it.

‘So when I tell you, Dexter, not to over-immerse yourself in all of this toxicity, I mean it.'

I cannot get out of there quickly enough.

I need to shower.

I need to wash off the grime all that toxic hatred and bigotry masquerading as religious virtue has coated me with.

I need to scrub my skin raw.