Dating in the City: The Secret Diary of an Investment Banker...

100 Minutes Paternity Leave…

I got the phone call at 3pm, just as we were finalising the biggest M&A pitch of the quarter. My wife was in labour with our first child and on the way to the hospital.

My MD, Philip, was an awkward character, but surely the birth of my first born was sufficient excuse to leave early and let the juniors handle the presentation.

“Of course John, you’ve got to go,” he barked once I’d shared the news. “And don’t worry about the rehearsal call tonight. But make sure you’re on the 8am run through tomorrow. And I’ll see you in the airport lounge by 11.”

I’d known if the baby came early it could clash with the pitch. I’d worried more about a scheduling issue than the impending birth of my first born. But the realisation that I was being permitted the rest of the afternoon off to meet my new child before being required back at the coal face was when something finally snapped.

By my calculations, that gave me about 100 minutes of paternity leave.

How the fuck had I ended up here?

Fifteen years earlier, I’d stumbled into the bright lights of the City as an unspeakably enthusiastic 21-year-old. Draped in a new Next suit and black plastic shoes, with a coveted spot on a graduate training programme at a bulge bracket investment bank, I had made it.

My plans were straightforward. Earn a shitload of cash and find a trophy girlfriend. Those noble goals represented the full extent of my youthful ambition.

I had little inkling that I was entering the modern-day equivalent of a work camp. Eighty to one-hundred-hour weeks were standard. The destruction of your mental and physical health was an expected sacrifice. You left your ability to form healthy relationships at the door.

And for five years, I loved it.

All-nighters finishing presentations. Big M&A mandates. Multiple competing deadlines. All washed down with six-figure bonuses. What wasn’t to like? Sure, I didn’t have a girlfriend for five years, but my sex life was a sacrifice worth making.

It was when I wanted a little more that the problems crept in.

Try maintaining a healthy relationship when you never leave the office before midnight. See how many times you can be forgiven for standing up a date. See how tolerant a new girlfriend will be when you spend a romantic weekend away chained to your work-issued laptop, updating a client valuation.

Multiple failed attempts at relationships led me to conclude that a junior investment banker’s sex life is most similar to a convicted criminal’s. You are stuck 24/7 with the same group of people, who uniquely understand your peculiar routines and total lack of a life outside your four walls. You haven’t seen your mum for months. It’s mostly men, with too much testosterone and a desperate need to be seen as top dog.

So if you wanted to get laid, the quicker you realised you’d better stick to your grad class, the better.

At least then you both accepted that the only time you’d have together would be between 3am and 7am. You could discuss Excel shortcuts and risk-free rates after the act of lovemaking, during if that’s your thing. And if you were really lucky, they’d meet you in the disabled toilets on the client floor after 11pm and give you a handjob.

And to stretch the analogy to breaking point, if you could get into a romantic tryst with a VP, it was like being in an illicit romance with the prison screw. You could enjoy regular sex with your superior, with the added benefit of protection when work was being handed out. The price you paid was that your fellow grads all hated you. It was worth it.

Things do get better, of course.

As you rise through the banking hierarchy, you’re rewarded with a little more freedom. A Friday night date isn’t frowned upon. Planning a week away during the summer holidays is grudgingly accepted.

The hours become more manageable as you push the heavy lifting onto the latest intake of enthusiastic young recruits.

But each incremental privilege is earned through blood, sweat and tears.

The rules of thumb my fellow grads and I adopted went something like this:

Analyst years (1–3)

Don’t even think about romance. The job is everything. Your family, your lover, your confidant, your idol. You live and breathe the job. If you imagine you’re living in North Korea, it makes it more tolerable.

Associate years (4–6)

A romance can be carefully pursued. Stick to colleagues if possible, or associates from other banks. No one else will understand. Don’t consider children. Children before VP level are frowned upon. If it happens, keep it secret.

VP years (7–10+)

You’ve reached the promised land. Well done. Romance and marriage are acceptable. Hell, have a kid if you want. Just be back in the office to finish the deck in the morning. You want to make MD, right? You can use the bigger bonuses to pay for therapy.

Are things getting better in the industry? Undoubtedly, yes. Toxic masculinity is less acceptable.

There’s a growing recognition that destroying the mental health of a generation of junior bankers to drive revenues isn’t a particularly sustainable business model.

But it’s not universal. Corporate bullying and burnout persist, and in many areas, they’re increasing.

What’s the answer?

Beats me. I’ve got three large M&A deals on the go and just heard one of my team will shortly be going on maternity leave.

I mean, WTF. Doesn’t she know how busy we are?

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