|Click to Enlarge. Note the Hedge Fund Manager Yachts.|
As their online brochure says, “we invite the world’s most exclusive travellers. . .” I’d just finished Takeover my big business novel. And while the proofs were at the printers, managed to wangle an invitation to this hidey hole for the super-rich.
I was not a good guest. The first night, at a cocktail party, I got entangled in a heated argument with the guest of honor about the then recent shooting in the back of some suspected Irish terrorists on the streets of Gibralter. Her deceased husband was the British Admiral who had given the order to shoot to kill on sight. She was not amused by my argument that we have courts for judgment. And that public executions were gangster acts. She argued that it was the guerrillas who set the rules. I said, etc. etc.
|British Dowager Look-Alike|
I vowed to be a better, less obstreperous guest. Not fuck up any more cocktail parties. And the next morning, I was playing tennis with a gent who asked what I did for a living. "I’m a novelist," I said proudly. "Just finished a book called Takeover. Killed a couple dozen CEOs and I really enjoyed that."
“I am a CEO,” he said through gritted teeth.
I vowed to be a better, less obstreperous guest. Not fuck up any more tennis games. And the next morning I was playing tennis with a well groomed gent who asked what I did for a living. "Just finished writing a book called Takeover. The villain is a hedge fund manager."
|Hedge Fund Manager|
“I am a hedge fund manager he said through gritted teeth.
“Great,” I said. “Where do you live?”