Maybe, she said. Maybe. And with that she let the conversation begin to drift through its regular closing waypoints. How things were going. How she was doing. Catherine told her sister the basic truth here, only slightly cleansed. She was going through a patch, a stretch. And she even found herself in partway, cautious agreement with Valerie that maybe, just maybe, looked at a certain way, Morris had a point about her taking time off. Maybe she should go to France and prowl the brocante markets for distressed chairs and teacups and unusual glass orbs. There was something to be said for simple, beautiful objects and the eye necessary to find them. And how terrible would it be in the end if Morris actually did offer to take out her position in DIY? Catherine was passionate about health. Surely this was a moment when she needed to be passionate about her own.
“You realize people dream all their lives about having even a minute to stop and think, recharge the batteries, right? You don’t have to hang out with me. Go lie on the beach for a while. Any beach in the world.”
Val had to go. More crying in the background. Plus she had to get down to the store later and meet an artisanal stained glass artist who was redoing her front window.
“Sounds expensive. You doing good otherwise?” Catherine said, realizing she hadn’t asked about her sister at all.
“I’m doing amazing. We’re stocking Christmas stuff now at the boutique. You should come over. Vintage mercury glass tree ornaments. Really nice.”
Catherine couldn’t remember the last time she’d even put up Christmas decorations. But she was sure that the objects in question would be beautiful.
“I’ll try in the next couple weeks,” she said. “Promise.”
“I understand,” her sister said. “You’ve got so much going on.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anyway. Love.”
“Love.”
“Later.”
“Bye-ee.”
“Bye, Val.”
—
She took the train. In the end, that’s what it had to be. She’d thought she’d fly. Right to the last minute, she’d firmly believed it. She opened up the discount ticket site. She entered airports of departure and arrival. She pulled down the calendar and clicked on suitable dates. Round trip. One adult. Preferred seat in the exit row, yes please. No checked luggage. No firearms, wheelchairs or surfboards.
No, I have not visited a farm in the past 30 days.
All done exactly as any ordinary person would until the moment her payment details had been entered—credit card number, expiry date, CVV code—and there was her cursor finally blinking over the confirmation button, and Catherine knew in a dizzying instant, even as her finger clicked the mouse and the purchase was completed, her credit card was billed, her heart pounding now, forehead beaded with sweat, chest empty, that she would never use the ticket. Even as the email confirmation arrived, she knew that she’d never been able, that she’d only been reviewing what it might have felt like to be normal in those moments, to do things routinely that now filled her with dread and panic, the sense of movement in her peripheral vision, the sense of threat, closeness. Black shapes, close and cold.
Amtrak is fine, she said to herself. Amtrak is great, really. And on the train she realized it really was, sitting in the suite she’d reserved. It was tiny, designed for two people to sit face to face. With just herself, she pulled the door shut, put her legs up on the opposite seat, wrapped a blanket around her and it was as if she were in a cozy nest. Very nice indeed. The landscape blurring past. Night falling. Two sleeps to Chicago. And after dinner and a glass of wine and turn-down service, she slept deeply and completely. Then woke and phoned Morris, having picked up a coffee and a Danish in the dining car. And she cut right to the chase.
“I’m looking forward to meeting your partners,” she told him. The train was shuffling its way through eastern Montana by then, the flatlands spreading, bison on the ridge line. “I’m looking forward to answering any questions they may have.”
“Well, that’s super, Catherine,” he said, letting out a breath. Not quite a sigh. There was a trace of irritability there. She was on the train, she’d just told him. She was going to be in a day late.
“May I know their names?” Catherine asked.
Morris didn’t hide his exasperation. “Why are you even asking this? It’s irrelevant.”
“It’s highly relevant,” Catherine said. “I started this company, and if I’m going to let people sniff around in my business, I think I deserve to know their names.”
“We started this company, Catherine. And you know my name.” Then, gentler, “Where are you?”
“Just crossed the Continental Divide,” she said.
Another pause. “You’ll be flying again, soon enough,” he said. He wasn’t a bad man, despite his endless calculations and manoeuvres. “Come to town. We’ll have a conversation and sort out the future. I’ll let Kate and the others know you’re a day behind.”
Catherine heard her own name, the nickname her sister used. Phil too. Sometimes Yohai. But not Morris. “Confused here,” she said. “You’re talking to me now, yes?”
“Oh, sorry. Kate Speir,” Morris said. “She’s an advisor. Someone you might like to meet, actually. Tough as nails like you.”
Catherine was staring out the glass as they spoke. She was thinking about what kind of person could advise Morris, who always seemed to have such developed plans of his own, his mind endlessly running the numbers in a hurry for the payoff. It must surely be someone tougher than Catherine herself felt at that moment, tucked under a blanket in a hurtling train, racing eastward towards a collision with God knows what. She could imagine that shotgun quite clearly now, the glinting length of it, barrels aimed directly at her.
Rostock came to mind just then and her mood steadied. She thought of the conversation they would have, the information and ideas and relevant experiences that such a man would carry. She wondered if Rostock would finally, on the approach of the two-year anniversary, stop the spread of shadows, throw light onto the mysteries.
And with that she let her forehead drift to the cool glass, to feel the rails thrumming there, to feel the landscape rolling past underneath her. The trained rocked and creaked. She was asleep in minutes. And it seemed like a mere blink before she woke to find herself pounding into Chicago, towers rising all around her. In a taxi, a hotel room, a long bath, all in what seemed like a kaleidoscopic minute, a tumbling of colour and movement and mood. Dinner, then sleep. And then it was the morning of the day in question, and she was fresh and ready. And up that elevator she went in that gleaming black tower on Randolph Avenue, up into the clouds, to the boardroom with its globe and telescope, with its shining expanses of mahogany. And Morris. No flanking lawyers, accountants, no advisors. Just Morris stern-faced on the far side of the table, hands folded in front him. Black crewneck, Apple watch. Check, check. Black teleconference console at his elbow, one red light blinking to signal another presence there.
Phil too. Phil who pushed his big frame up out of the black leather swivel chair on the near side of the table opposite Morris, took her hand in both of his, bending down to greet her with a kiss to her cheek.
Catherine scanned the room for effect, noting the men in turn, the emptiness around the rest of the table, that single blinking light. But Morris didn’t wait for her to comment. He began immediately once she’d sunk into her chair. No deck of PowerPoint slides. Everything he had to say was prepared and waiting merely for the cue to be released. And here it came. A single finger to a button on the teleconference console. A blinking red light gone solid green. And then all the anomalous details of this performance were swamped immediately and forgotten in the jolting explosion, the shuddering shock waves carried towards her by what Morris went on to say.
“Catherine,” he began, voice hard and flat. “We’d like you to listen to a couple of key points. We think they’re really important. And we think that you will soon agree.”
CLIENT CONFLICT
M
ORRIS WAS FORCING HER OUT. Or that’s what it worked out to after you did the math. Morris was giving her thirty days’ notice of his intent to activate the buy-sell agreement, to pull the trigger on that shotgun. Thirty days after which Catherine either gave up her company or raised the same amount he’d offered and bought him out.
All Catherine could feel in the numb twenty-five minutes of that meeting was that she’d made that whole trip across the continent only to find out that Morris didn’t have any surprises for her. He was exactly the man she’d seen all along. He was even dressed the same as the last time she’d been in that room. The perfect uniform for the man who would drag her here for this ritual humiliation and not just do her the courtesy of writing an email and letting her flush deep red in private.
Morris sat impassively at the head of that dark wood table as he spoke, the sea of navy carpet around them. All those clubby details she remembered, the cowboy art and the cigar box on a sideboard. Catherine had taken the same seat by the window where she had received Morris’s flattery the last time round. Grant Park, Butler Field, the lake beyond. It was a brilliantly sunny day and the towers along Randolph and Michigan were gleaming.
When Phil had leaned close to kiss her cheek on her arrival earlier, he’d whispered: “Hear him out. Then we respond.”
So she listened while Morris spoke, his hands folded in front of him, only unfolding at certain moments when he would raise a finger to tap it on the dark wood surface to emphasize a point. Morris had a new investment partner, he explained. A private fund called Mako Equity. They’d taken an interest in DIY and wanted to be involved. But Mako, Morris said, played alone. And they were too many years in and too many billions returned to change practice now. That meant they were asking him for a new CEO. And the best way to accommodate that demand was to give Catherine this opportunity to sell.
“Opportunity?” Catherine said, incredulous, receiving a fractional side-glance from Phil who had, as always, adopted the practice of listening fully before responding in any way.
It was a big number, Morris said. DYI market valuations had soared. “No sane person turns this down.”
“Sane. Sorry, what are you saying?” Catherine shot back.
“Let’s hear the details and then consider whether responding now or in a few days might be better,” Phil said to her.
Morris had produced a letter from an inside pocket that he laid on the table next to him, edges neatly aligned with the corner of the table. The theatrics were obvious. As if the money were actually in the envelope right there and she had to snatch it before Morris changed his mind. Catherine felt a bitter laugh rising, but suppressed it feeling sure she’d sound hysterical.
“What about the courtesy of a conversation?” Catherine said. “What about we try to sort things out between us?”
She’d meant that as a bid for reason. But the words came out sounded pleading and weak. Why would she even suggest that? Morris had insulted her by being this predictable. No sane person would want to work with him after that.
“We’ve had many conversations,” Morris said, sitting back. “And things have still not progressed as I believe they should.”
But there was no judgment here, Morris went on. It was no shame to have been distracted after what she’d been through. It was normal, and it was the way the mind and the body returned to health.
“Morris?” Catherine said. “Drop it. I’m completely healthy and don’t appreciate the insinuation.”
“We’re not here to talk about your performance. We’re executing the buy-sell because that’s what our partnership agreement allows either of us to do at any time.”
“You’re not executing,” Phil interjected. “You’re notifying your intent as stipulated in the agreement. I’d also like to point out that having notified, it’s entirely possible to withdraw the notification in the thirty-day period if both parties agree.”
“Well, I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Morris said. “Mako are very keen. They won’t walk away. Catherine, you really need to think seriously about this. It’s a lot of money.”
“An amount I could raise privately and buy your share.”
Morris raised his eyebrows and shoulders together slightly. Sure. Of course. You could.
She turned to Phil.
“Technically, yes,” he said. “But probably best to discuss that possibility in private.”
But what Phil wasn’t saying was obvious to all. There was a certain art to the triggering of a buy-sell, the choosing of a price that you knew your partner could never match. Morris had far more resources at his disposal now than Catherine ever would herself. With Mako Equity in the picture, she didn’t stand a chance.
“There is one other thing that I might mention,” Morris said, and here he looked away from her, and she sensed something slightly different incoming. Here came the threat. “Mooring,” he said.
This was not what Catherine had been expecting.
“You didn’t tell me that you’d gotten it stable at three months. I had to learn that from Dr. Burke.”
Phil once again gave her a half glance, curious. But she didn’t say anything. Now wasn’t the time to explain. And of course Morris was right. She hadn’t told him. She’d suppressed that information because she knew he’d force the prototype into test. The atmosphere around testing and launching was clouded, Catherine thought. They needed to have everything lined up. Everything sorted.
Morris was talking again, slowly and steadily. And here came the threat she’d sensed earlier. After activating the buy-sell, if Mako came to the conclusion that she was acting in bad faith, they would sue.
Phil took a breath, let it out. “Do we have to go here right now?” he asked.
“No, we don’t,” Catherine said. “But let’s. Bad faith how?”
“Well,” Morris said, “if decisions you make with your time remaining are seen to erode DIY market position…”
“Give me a break,” Catherine said. “Everything I’ve done has been to advance our interests.”
“I’m not saying differently. But it’s a matter of a third party’s perception. Speaking personally, I’m drawn more to a different analysis.”
Catherine waited.
“Seems to me,” Morris said, with muted but still evident satisfaction, “that your delays brought about this offer. You attracted this attention to yourself.”
“I’m not sure this is productive,” Phil said.
“Might as well go ahead, Morris,” Catherine said.
Well, he explained, Mako was obviously attracted to the DIY valuation. But they wouldn’t invest if they didn’t think that valuation was going to go higher. “If you had pushed the product through testing to beta release as I advised,” Morris said, “our valuation would now be so high that Mako wouldn’t touch it.”
“I’m quite sure this isn’t productive,” Phil said.
The discussion had shifted in tone so distinctly that Catherine felt it like the temperature rising in the room. She was still flushed red. Only now she thought she might be sweating along her brow. This suggestion that it was she who had authored this situation. And that idea of having brought this threat onto herself suddenly refocused Catherine not on Morris but on that teleconference console in the middle of the table, on that solid green light. Someone was listening there. Someone who had said not a word, whom Catherine had not even heard shuffling papers or breathing. Somewhere out there, an invisible other was listening to her and listening carefully. Catherine’s chest was full to bursting, and she came forward out of her chair, hands to the table, to her feet now. Phil went to stand up himself. She saw his weight go sharply forward in his chair, the leather squelching. But then when she only leaned forward and snatched the envelope from in front of Morris—who didn’t resist it, who seemed to have anticipated exactly that motion—Phil sat back. He did not reach out a hand towards her, to restrain her as he might have thought necessary, to calm her or to intervene in any other way.
; —
Catherine stood punching the button for the elevator even though it was already summoned and on its way, humming up the shaft to rescue her, take her clean away. She didn’t say a word until the car had arrived, the doors ghosting open. Phil’s hand across the light beam as she stepped inside. Then the doors breathed shut and they were plummeting earthwards. She gripped the rail. She remembered as always the sensation of tipping, falling. She closed her eyes, briefly nauseous, but forced them open.
“Well that went just about as badly as possible, didn’t it?”
Phil was staring up at the monitor in the top corner of the car: a stock ticker, a talking head. He was hard to read at the best of times, and was now merely looking lost in thought.
“Mako Equity?” Catherine said. “Did I actually get that right? Morris is partnered with a company named after a predator fish? What do these people think, this is a freaking movie?”
“They definitely do not think that,” Phil said. “We should talk. Time for a drink?”
“Dinner plans, actually,” Catherine said. “But yes, a quick one. We definitely need to talk.”
The car was braking. Catherine could feel the incremental Gs, the sense of mounting weight and then a springing back, a new lightness.
Phil led her to a place around the corner. They entered a long white marble room with black stools and hundreds of bright bottles behind the counter. By the time they were seated and had ordered, Catherine was back to fuming.
“So that’s where we’re at,” Catherine said. “Anybody can sue anybody. Anybody can make accusations about my mental state.”
“Nobody said anything about your mental state,” Phil said.
“You heard him going on about my distractions. That’s code for hysteria, Phil. That’s what men say to women in these sorts of meetings. And these guys in tech can be the worst dickheads of all. And why didn’t the Mako people say anything? What is up with that? They’re on the phone but not a word? Silence. Nada. Zip. Doesn’t that strike you as hostile?”
The Rule of Stephens Page 8
