Ladies and transvestite beauts of SAC-- I have some devastating news to report. Arki Busson is back together with Uma Thurman, after having called off their engagement (and relationship) last December. I know that this is going to be a tough pill for you to swallow, but if it makes you feel any better, there's going to be at least one person for whom the news is so much more devastating. And that guy is Andy Davidson.
Now, I am not saying Davidson, who profiled Ark over the weekend is interested in Busson romantically, though if he was, no one would blame him (nary a man, woman, or barnyard animal can resist the appeal of this Arki "fund of funds dime piece" Busson). What I am saying is that, by his own admission, Davidson was hoping that by the end of his interview, he and B would be friends. BEST FRIENDS. The type of friends who spend all their time together. Who do EVERYTHING together. Who don't let girlfriends, wives, random pieces of tail or any of that kind of stuff get in the way of what they have. And it actually looked like that's the direction things were going until Andy found out, right before they finished, that guess what? The bitch is back in the picture and Busson's precious time is going to be sucked up doing things with Uma. Funny how Arki didn't mention that until he'd already gotten Andy to fall for him, isn't it? Oh, Andy was mad something fierce but after regaining his composure, he decided not to piss all over their time together and write a damning, slanderous profile, citing unknown sources in the hedge fund community noting that AB is "known to wear lifts," and "4 inches, max, and I'm not talking about the extra height he gets while wearing Timberlands." Instead Andy chose to go forward and recount what was a wonderful day together, the seeds of which will grow into a beautiful friendship, and stick another pin in the voodoo doll he'd fashioned in the likeness of "that stupid fucking whore."
Anything else I should have asked? Arpad Busson, my new best friend, answers that one about 20 minutes later, when we’re sitting in his sumptuous, leather-lined Range Rover, stuck in London traffic. Arki — as he’s known to his friends — is lounging in the back, seatbelt off, puffing on a Marlboro Light while his French driver punches the satnav anxiously.
“You haven’t asked me properly about the markets,” he says suddenly, in his gravelly, American-inflected English.
Who cares? I tell him. We’re all bored with the tyranny of the markets. “But the markets are vital,” he says, looking surprised, then a sly smiles stretches across his vulpine features. He’s wondering if I’m joking.
This year, [Busson's annual charity benefit] it was held in the old Eurostar terminal at Waterloo, decked out with fountains and forests. The Killers played live, Queen Rania of Jordan gave the keynote speech, Steve Coogan offered light relief. Top of the list of items auctioned was a Fiat 500 decorated by Damien Hirst. Or was that by one of Damien’s assistants? “No, no, no,” says Busson with a giggle, wagging his finger. Tactile and cologned, he likes to laugh, and has huge charm — an asset that sets him apart from many hedge fund chiefs here.
Busson has, by reputation, a volatile temper as a twin for his charm, but he’s sensitive and seductive too — one of the reasons he’s renowned as the hedge fund sector’s premier salesman.
Earlier, in his office, he’d swept in half an hour late. “Sorry, sorry, I was told the wrong time.” He starts nervously, asking for quote approval of anything I run, grinning sheepishly then chatting with ease. Born in France, based in London, he oozes Gallic elan: long locks swept back, bangles on his left wrist, hairy chest bursting from crisp, open-neck shirt.
I'd go on, but this is a family publication.