B:Chapter One

One: In which a partnership is reconstituted

A semantic debate is taking place over lunch, in an exceedingly stylish
London restaurant:

"Are they wearing uniforms or costumes?"

"What? Uniforms, restaurant staff have uniforms, not costumes."

"Yes that's what I thought at first, but look closely, they are all
different. Similar, but different: like variations on a theme. The
bar-staff have shirts and trousers, the cocktail waitresses have
blouses and skirts, the restaurant waitresses are in dresses - and the
print design varies as well."

Tyson took a moment to consider JP's point and to check out their
waitress, and her outfit. He decided that both were very nice, and
further noted that the outfit was undeniably subtly different from that
of the cocktail waitress who had got them their drinks at the bar
earlier. "Yeah, you're right about that. But so?"

"I think you have to agree that the defining feature of a uniform is,
well, uniformity. They all have to be the same. If they are different,
and these are, that makes them costumes, not uniforms."

"No, costumes are what people wear to a fancy dress parties; or what
comic book characters wear. These chicks aren't in costumes. Cute
though. 'scuse me darling: could we have another round of these? And I
think we're ready to order some food"

"These", just to make it clear how stylish a place JP and Tyson are in,
were a ginger martini (JP, ?8.95) and a thysyllis fizz (Tyson, but at
JP's recommendation, ?12.95).

JP twiddled his empty glass reflectively. "No, you're being careless
there. Most super-heroes do wear costumes, I'll grant you that but they
aren't costumes because superheroes wear them. You're confusing
co-relation with causality - and remember what Professor van de Head
used to say about that?"

Prof. Dirk van de Head had been JP and Tyson's statistics professor at
the Anderson School of Business at the University of California in Los
Angeles, where JP and Tyson had met, five years previously. Tyson, who
didn't remember what the esteemed Dutch academic had to say on
confusing co-relation with causality (it's a bad thing) is Californian,
six foot nine inches tall, a former college basket-ball star and now an
overpaid investment banker. Filled to his high brim with all the
gung-ho energy and enthusiasm that his nationality, size sporting past
and mercenary career suggests, Tyson is drinking expensive drinks and
engaging in inane boy banter because he wants advice on a point of some
importance, viz how to get a particular German stock analyst to sleep
with him this weekend. He had called JP earlier in the day to ask for a
restaurant recommendation for his forthcoming date: specifying
somewhere that would seal the deal. JP had suggested this place, and
further had made them a lunch booking as an advance recee, so that
Tyson could get the lay of the land today prior to just getting laid in
three days time.

Tyson, who goes through women the way lesser bankers go through
cocaine, doesn't normally need much help in persuading people to sleep
with him, but he and JP have a history of collaboration on such
problems, and besides, as an American only recently relocated to
London, he's happy to defers to JP's local expertise. So far he's
impressed: JP's taste hasn't deserted him; the black granite stairway,
the carved rose-wood furnishings, the low up-lighting and the perfectly
mixed cocktails were adding up to a highly compelling combination. This
place smelt like a sure thing, a guaranteed converter, the advantage
that he needed to bring young Gretchen home. Tyson felt himself
hardening in anticipation, counting his orgasm before it was hatched,
as it were. But JP is still talking about super-heroes.

"Here's my point. Spider-Man, Batman, Superman: costumes, yes. Each one
different each one special; Spidey's got the webs, Bats- the ears,
Superman - the cape and the original undies on the outside- each have
they're own costume, but they are costumes not because they are worn by
superheroes but because they are each a unique symbolic, totemic
representation of their hero's unique identity and abilities. That's
what a costume is: an outward manifestation of an internal identity.
Now consider the X-Men by contrast: they are also super-heroes, but
unlike the others, they are a super-team - and they have matching
outfits: black leather finished with a stylised, silver 'X'; which
stands, of course, for the name of their leader and patron, Professor
Charles Xavier. The X-Men, my friend, are in uniform. Their outfits
don't represent individual identity so much as group loyalty. It's an
important distinction".

Tyson, who had never understood JP's life-long obsession with
superheroes, figured that swift agreement would resolve this issue:
"yes. Got it: costumes. With you, the waitresses are in costumes, the
X-Men are in uniform. Now about Gretchen"

JP sighed, parked his pet topic, leaned forward, brought the tips of
his fingers together and pursed his lips, and exhaled through his nose,
flaring his aquiline nostrils in what he imagined to be a fair
impression of another of his heroes, Sherlock Holmes about to hear the
details of a case. "Tell me".

"Well we met at a conference in Munich about a month ago, she's cute as
fuck, you know in that really tight, hard Teutonic way, and there's
definitely something going on between us, but it was just a one-day
conference, so no opportunity to exploit. But we've been email flirting
like maniacs, and now she has to be in the London office Monday for a
meeting, and she's staying the night and, and I've said I'd plan a
night out on the town. This place looks like it could be the deal,
'cause obviously I'm hoping that it will be a night out followed by a
night in, and out, and in again, if you know what I mean".

JP pointed a black jade chopstick in mock accusation, "Tyson, a deaf
hermaphrodite, raised by wolves in deepest India would have no problem
in discerning your meaning. OK, let's see what we have to work with.
She's German, in town for one night only, you don't know each other
that well but she likes you. So far, so good, but let me ask you a few
things: what are your intentions?"

Tyson seemed bemused. "Jesus, JP, one year back in London and you've
turned into Victorian dad? My intentions are to have sex with her, of
course, I just told you that"

JP signed and scratched one perfectly proportioned ear-lobe with said
chop-stick. "I mean other than sleeping with her, you great oaf.
Sleeping with her is the given, it's the pre-requisite, it's the
starting point. I mean after - do you see this as something with legs
or is this strictly a non-repeatable?"

"Ah, my intentions after I sleep with her. I get it. Well to be honest,
I don't know, she's nice enough and hot as hell but I hardly know her.
And she's German. German and living Germany, I mean. I think most
likely this is either a non-repeatable; or a comfort of strange cities
type of thing; you know she girl-Munich; me man-London."

Within a week of meeting Tyson and JP had realised that whilst they
were both avid womanisers, their tastes in women - and the niche of
women they each appealed to - were essentially non-competitive. Tyson,
with his surf-boy looks and absurdly gigantic but perfect physique went
for similarly hearty, sporty girls: Voluptuous volleyball players,
ruggedly racked rock-climbers, competitive triathlonists; these were
the types of women who floated Tyson's considerable boat. JP, by
contrast, well, JP's taste was fairly eclectic and hence hard to
define. It did, however, unquestionably preclude overly muscular women
with whom he feared sex would be rather too much like wrestling a
man.

Like two obsessive stamp collectors, therefore, one focussed on 18th
century penny-blacks, the other on the legendarily rare Thai butterfly
series, this happy co-incidence of a shared area of interest but with
diverging detail in taste steered he boys away from the natural MBA
tendency of rivalry and instead allowed a fast and lasting friendship.
They decided that they were each other's undiversifiable risk, a tongue
in cheek reference to a core principle of corporate finance:
diversifiable risk is the category risk of the investment, which can be
balanced out by spreading ones capital across a varied portfolio. By
way of crude example, if you hold shares in a commercial airline
company, you should expect the risk of poor performance in times of
war, because you expect it, though, you can diversify that risk away,
for example by balancing your airline stocks out them with holdings in
defence companies which will do well in a time of war. That way your
have upside in either scenario. Undiversifiable risk, as the term
suggests, can't be got rid of by such strategies. It's the risk
specific to the company, an unavoidable component of playing the game:
whether the game be the stock-markets or high-stakes seduction.

Throughout business school and in the years immediately thereafter when
JP was hired by Parallax HQ in Los Angeles and Tyson by the local
office of Goldman Sachs, this undiversifiable duo practiced one of the
most effective revolving Wing-Man partnerships since Cassa Nova and his
younger brother Bossa worked the night clubs of ancient Italy together.
From a repertoire of joint chat-up lines (JP, nine inches shorter and a
hundred pounds lighter than Tyson would knowingly inform women that he
and Tyson shared certain crucial measurements; differing only in that
whilst Tyson's genitals were proportional to his size, JP's, were
disproportional) to an encyclopaedic classification of relationships
and seduction scenarios, the boys were confident and appallingly
successful co-conspirators in their chosen domain.

The magic partnership had been fragmented in it's forth year when JP
had secured a promotion within Parallax which entailed returning to his
old home, London. Tyson, however, always a devout anglophile and
missing his wing-man followed fast on, accepting a head-hunters
invitation to join the media practice of Coutts &;amp; Co.; that
most English of banks. The move not only brought Tyson to London, but
also, because Coutts was aggressively expanding its film finance
practice, put him into the Industry and the duo had started
enthusiastically looking for ways for their companies to work
together.

JP was continuing his analysis "Right, from what you say this is indeed
the right place, its high stakes; ostentatiously presumptive so
definitely make or break. But here's some detail you'll need. Start in
the bar area, and have the same drinks we just had: the Martini is for
you though, the Fizz is a girl's drink; order the drinks at once
without consulting her, she'll think it a tiny bit pushy, but she'll
forgive you because its your city and when they are so good. But then
go one further, order the starters from the bar as well, again without
checking with her and don't bother looking at the menu either, what you
want is a mixed dim-sum platter with some venison rolls on the side and
a side of scallops in shells. At this point she's thinking you are a
bit cocky - but she's German so she respects authority and she'll be a
tiny bit impressed that you went off menu that its been as good as it
will be. Then when they show you to your table - by the way, speak to
Lincoln - he's the manager: good looking black guy with corn-rolls,
about getting that table over there, it's secluded but not too much so
- once you are ready for the mains, and this is the master-stroke, ask
her if she would like to order for the table, a range of dishes to
share. The menu is absurdly long, and I'll suspect she's not an expert
on oriental fusion, so I'd bet money she'll defer to you yet again. At
which point, Tyson old man, at which point you are in, because having
deferred to your judgement three times, and been proved right to do so
three times, she's not going to be able to start saying no to you that
late in the night."

Tyson had been making notes on his Blackberry, PDA, the tiny key-board
absurdly dwarfed by his size 12 hands. "Brilliant, you haven't lost it,
brother. I was worried the English climate might have washed it out of
you, but you've still got it. Anything else?"

"Not really. We'll try some food now - I'd recommend the skate-wing in
plum sauce for her and the steak in merlot for you. kai-lan on the
side, then you can share. Sharing, as you know, is very good. Oh: and
there is a new Margaret Valley Shiraz on the wine-list - Shadowfax,
named for Gandalf's horse. It's expensive, but fantastic value and goes
well with the spice. Got all that?"

Tyson put the Blackberry away, and inclined his head in appreciation.
"The boys are back. JP, my brother, I missed you man: Undiversifiable!"
Tyson extended a phone book sized fist across the table which JP met
with his own. "You know JP; thinking about it, we should really get
ourselves an 0800-number for this kind of stuff. I mean if the crew at
Coutts are anything to go by, these English guys could use some help in
this department, and I get the feeling that between your local
knowledge and our tried and tested system, we'd really help these
brothers out."

JP ran with the idea which appealed to his vanity: "Maybe we should
write a book: 'Tyson and JP's guide to getting laid in London'".

"Hey, I'd buy it? You know that is really quite a good idea. Now is
there a film financing deal or something we can talk about so I can
charge lunch to the bank?"

There was - which was fortunate as it enabled the Shadowfax to be
tasted, repeatedly.