Polly's press & media appearances
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Rediscover your Passion - Go It Alone
Finansmiljøet i London - et Jobbhelvete
Fear and Loathing in the Heart of the city
My Glittering City Career Turned into Golden Handcuffs
Do Women Really Get a Raw Deal in the City?
My High Flying City Job was not worth a Life of Misery
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"My high-flying City job was not worth a life of misery" 27th August 2006 At 21, Cambridge graduate Polly Courtney was offered a prestigious job at a City investment bank. But her high hopes turned to despair - a battle against overwork, sexism and vicious backstabbing. By leaving she gave up generous pay and perks, but her survival depended on it. Her new novel, Golden Handcuffs, is about the experiences of young graduates in the Square Mile. She tells her story to Anushka Asthana. The first invitation came on a thick cream card with silver edging, inviting me to a dinner hosted by a large City firm. The wording made it sound very exclusive. I was studying engineering at Cambridge at the time. The big City firms recruit only from the top universities. They cherry-pick students with strings to their bows - football captains and leaders of orchestras - and entice them with offers of fancy dinners and expensive wine. Of course, I accepted the invitation. I was a student and it was a free meal. I went along with no intention of applying for a job with the firm. I'd heard what it was like - there was no way I was going into the City. But the recruitment team were clever. They'd sent up a selection of attractive, personable young graduates who painted such a rosy picture of the firm that I started to listen. They talked about working on multi-million-pound deals and travelling the world. 'It's not just the money here, it's the thrill of the work,' I remember one of them saying. It genuinely wasn't the money that convinced me, though - it was the challenge. 'If you're really determined, you can go a long way,' they promised. My first taste of banking was in the summer of 2001. I was paid £7,000 for an eight-week internship at an investment bank, along with 30 other undergraduates. Not bad, at the age of 21.
Twice a week, the company laid on events - wine-tasting, pub crawls, cocktail evenings at the Tower of London - that made us think we were working for the best firm in town. I wasn't keeping horrendously long hours - 13 or 14 hours a day was the norm - but others around me were always still sitting at their desks when I left every night. That should have been a warning sign. When I took a call offering me a job, lying on the beach two weeks after my internship finished, there was little doubt in my mind about where to start my career. Well, OK, there was a very quiet voice saying 'is it really what you want to do?' but a much louder one saying 'take it'. So I took it. After my final year at Cambridge, I was flown to New York for a two-month 'Boot Camp'. The starting salary was £37,500 a year plus a £7,500 golden hello bonus which hit our bank accounts as we arrived. We were 300 young, ambitious, cocky twentysomethings, in the heart of Manhattan with a lot of money at our disposal. It was the most exhilarating and the most exhausting summer of my life. Flying back to England, however, we hit the earth with a thud. The hours were long, much longer than during the internship. The non-stop partying came to an end, and grim reality kicked in. I was one of the lucky ones. I often left work before midnight, and I rarely spent a full weekend in the office. I sometimes felt I didn't really deserve my free dinner or cab ride home. Fellow first-years were not so fortunate. One guy was sent home suffering from exhaustion after working all night twice in a row. Sometimes I'd manage to get out by 8pm, but there was this bizarre notion that analysts should not leave before their senior colleagues. It was frowned on. It wasn't the hours per se that were bad; it was their unpredictability. Occasionally, I would foolishly arrange to meet a friend at, say, 9pm. At 6pm, things would be looking good, but half an hour later a director would swan past my desk on his way out the door, saying the words 'Could you just ...' and finishing with 'and if you could have that on my desk by seven o'clock tomorrow morning, that would be great. Oh, and don't spend too long on it, will you?' although there was enough work to fill eight hours. One night I left at 11pm and went home to bed. Just after 1am I woke to the sound of my front doorbell ringing. I had not heard my mobile - although it was supposed to be always in earshot - and they wanted me back in the office. Eventually, they had sent a taxi driver round to wake me up. I was hauled back to the office and worked through the next day, leaving near midnight. During my internship I saw one employee who would slip out in the evening and snort cocaine to pep himself up. At the bank there was an ongoing competition to prove you worked harder than anyone else, possibly through fear of redundancy. You could play tricks, such as leaving your jacket on the back of your chair and adjusting your computer while you went to the gym, returning with a wad of papers to give the impression you had been at a meeting. Some even sent company-wide emails at 2am to show how late they had worked. There were bonus points for anyone who could get one over another employee. I learnt this the hard way when I saw an anonymous comment on my appraisal form, which read: 'She seems to feel the need to off-load her work on people because can't cope.' I assumed that this was from a colleague whom I had once asked for help. One analyst became the envy of the year group when he announced that he was being sent on a business trip abroad. It turned out to be a two-day stint in the 'data centre' - an underground bunker in the Netherlands that housed row after row of computers and could have been anywhere in the world. This was the jet-setting life we'd been sold. Back in New York, we'd been given advice from some second-year analysts. 'You do get a vacation allowance, but if you book something in advance, the chances are that your boss will make you cancel it at the last minute. The firm compensates for cancelled holidays, but you're better off not booking them in the first place.' Things weren't so bad in London. Our holidays were cancelled, but at least we tried to take them. I was the only woman in a team of 21 and this made a difference: I was seen as a secretary, not as a banker. When directors scanned the office for an analyst, I just didn't seem to be on their radar. I was used to male-dominated environments. I'd been to an all-boys secondary school and worked in engineering. I'd always given as good as I'd got, but it was hard not to take personally comments such as 'When does your work experience end?', 'You must have slept your way into university' or 'Sorry Polly - we would invite you along, but we're planning to pull tonight.' I was even told by colleagues that the only reason I got the job was because of my legs. It was a delicate balance, trying to prove my worth without over-proving it. There are lots of fragile egos in the City, so being too bold can do you more harm than good. Some view the City experience as character building. I see it as fairly destructive. As an analyst, I never expected thanks or praise. Recognition would have been nice, but bankers don't have time for that. Quite often someone else would take the credit for an analyst's work. Lads' nights out were common, but I never felt properly invited, and they would typically end up in the local strip club. Affairs were certainly common. One started between two colleagues in their late twenties who were both married. I think it started when they were working on a deal, spending 20 hours a day together and working late into the night across a boardroom table. I remember an older, senior banker having an affair with a 24-year-old woman. Those at the top have a lot of power over vulnerable first-years. Seeing my friends at Christmas was what finalised my decision to leave. They reminded me that there was more to life. I was no longer the bubbly, self-confident person they all knew. I had to get out. Obviously, I'd have to finish the year - I couldn't pay back the golden hello, and just three months in a firm looks bad on your CV - but I made my decision. Others weren't so sure. There was the prospect of a hefty pay rise and bonus for those who stayed, and of course, there was the prestige. Answering the question 'Where do you work?' never failed to raise an eyebrow. That meant a lot to some of the guys. There's always something round the corner, tempting you to stay. That's how it works. And the fact that you're living a life that costs £50k a year to sustain - that can be a big factor in any decision. In the end, I was given the option to take voluntary redundancy and I received a £10,000 redundancy payment. When I walked out on my last day, it was as though I'd been handed my old personality back. I was exhausted and worn down, I was £50,000 better off, but, most of all, I was more clued up. I understood why City firms paid so much money: it was an anaesthetic. With hindsight, what I experienced was nothing unusual; that's the City lifestyle. You catch a couple of hours' sleep on the couch in your boss's office, you buy a toothbrush from a vending machine, you shower in the corporate gym, you buy a clean shirt from the in-house shop, and you're back at your desk for another day's work. Of the 32 graduates who joined in my year, there are three left today and all have moved out of that department. · Golden Handcuffs [which is to be published in November] is about two graduates, Abby and Mike, who find themselves working with, for and against each other in a large City firm during their first year out of university. It is about ambition, resilience and shattered dreams, and what it means to sell your soul to the City. |
Polly's TV & Radio appearances
From Engineer to Investment Banker to Novelist
Berliner Zeitung Magazin, 2007
I Know the Pressure Matthew was Under
I Sold My Soul to the City - then Wanted it Back
Banker Novel Shows it's not all Success in the City
Taste of High Life in City can Seduce Interns
City Woman who quit City over Sexism admits Lapdancing
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