by Adam Leigh
From the other side of the office, Julian appeared, dressed as if he was a guest of a minor royal at a polo match. He had on cream chinos, a blue blazer and a white linen shirt, with a polka-dot pocket square. He looked very handsome and dapper, two adjectives you might have struggled to use for me.
“When are you getting dressed for the interview?’ he enquired sternly.
“I am dressed. Someone needs to create the impression we are a tech business, not a firm of stockbrokers.”
Alice, who had witnessed the clash of fashion cultures, was enjoying the spectacle. “Honestly, Julian, you look lovely. If I didn’t like women, I could fall for you big time. Can I see your yacht someday?”
I sniggered, but she didn’t want to let me off the hook either: “And Alex. Don’t you need to get back to your bedroom and listen to your Nirvana records? Listen, boys, stop trying so hard and perhaps speak to each other before you plan your wardrobes for your next appearance.”
Before we could respond, the metallic groan and strain of the antique lift announced the imminent arrival of the interview team, and before we could art-direct our appearance further, we were being photographed against differing industrial and pipe-laden backgrounds in a series of incongruous and unsustainable poses. Our interviewer was an edgy youthful journalist, James Connor, who was clearly something of a rising star. He was smartly dressed, clean-shaven and extremely articulate. His questions were delivered with staccato shrillness, as if grinding out an admission of guilty complicity from us. For what, I don’t know.
“So, how did the idea develop?” he opened. I prepared to launch into the random serendipity of our sandpit encounter. Julian, sensing the imminent revelation of extraneous information, cut in without hesitation.
“Alex and I had been mulling over a number of start-up ideas for some time and we felt that parenting had enormous commercial scope.”
“Yes,” I added, “we wanted to make a difference to people’s family lives.”
Julian was leaning forward, straining to take command of the conversation. He clearly didn’t trust me to not rhapsodise about our mission, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of muzzling my passion.
“And in difficult times, spreading a little bit of happiness is not a bad reason to come into work.” My answer must have really niggled Julian and I tried not to smile. I had clearly done something, because his next reply came in a voice at least a semitone higher.
“We’re going to make this business global and we’re in talks with a number of potential partners who will allow us to reach new territories quickly.”
This did the trick for James, who, sensing better copy from Julian, directed his next few questions to him. We discussed the business plan, model and revenue targets, with me desperately attempting to correct or modify the flagrant exaggerations of Julian’s forecasts and pronouncements. I felt like I was a naughty child interrupting a parent on an important telephone call, such was the disdain I discerned in Julian’s rigid refusal to look at me directly or qualify positively anything I contributed. James gave no indication of picking up on the tension, or so I hoped. The conversation switched at the end to an enquiry about us and our family backgrounds. James’s last question was pretty direct.
“So, you are both fathers. What have you learnt from your own fathers that impacts on your aspirations for the business?” I hadn’t seen that one coming. Strangely, Julian’s eager and polished reply suggested he knew this was going to be his grand finale. He ran his hand through his fragrant floppy hair and removed his glasses, the tip of which he chewed on for a moment with measured deliberation.
“James, my father went to prison some years ago for insider dealing. He would not mind me telling you, and his experience has shaped my ambition. He was naive and followed others. I know that to really achieve anything in this world, you have to want something so much that it blinkers you from outside distraction and frankly diminishes emotional irrationality and allows you to focus on the right decision, not the decision that feels right. We are going to succeed, because my dad has taught me that being good but weak gets you nowhere.”
My mind was filled with conflicting thoughts as James shifted in his chair to face me. Primarily, I was overwhelmed by the nagging suspicion that Julian had learnt that speech in anticipation of the interview and was going to give a version of it irrespective of the question. I was also struggling to put into words the lesson I had learnt from my intellectual and professorial father, who was so disdainful of unchecked entrepreneurialism. Julian had overindulged in dramatic pauses, so I gabbled a confused response.
“A difficult question for me. My grandfather was a great businessman and I really loved learning from him. He had hat shops and as I child I loved being with him to hear how he grew his business. My dad is a professor of political history. He’s the enemy of successful business, really, and he would like me to do something dull, like write about the Industrial Revolution in nineteenth-century Germany.”
As James was putting away his notebook and recording equipment, I grew uneasy. I knew I should have spoken more favourably about Dad, but I was trying to have the best one-liners. He had told me recently with much excitement about his next book, which had the working title From the Rhineland to the Ruhr: The Antecedents of Marxist Thinking in German Industrialisation. It sounded excruciatingly dull, but to Dad it was supremely important. My last hope was that, as an avid Guardian reader, he loathed The Times. Maybe he wouldn’t see it when it came out?
***
Later that week, on Saturday morning, I heard the thud of the paper landing through the letter box, and with some trepidation I tiptoed downstairs, picked it up from the mat and, with shaking hands, searched out the article.
For a first profile, it was not a bad one. The colour picture was well framed, and we were smiling, not looking solemn or severe like traditional hard-nosed business magnates. The headline was pretty good too – ‘Meet the Parents’ – with a subhead that read:
PrimaParent is rapidly becoming one of London’s most talked about start-ups, with serious backing and ambitions. James Connor meets its two contrasting founders.
So far so good, and indeed what followed was a very accurate representation of our conversation, with an implicit admiration for the concept and its initial execution. Our concluding remarks about our fathers were reported verbatim. The last paragraph was a summary, which made difficult reading.
PrimaParent is an ambitious but credible business proposition, which with luck, tenacity and hard work may one day grow into a significant operation. I was struck, however, by the contrasting and unusual commercial marriage of its parents, Lazarus and Lloyd-Mason. The former is an energetic, enthusiastic, if slightly inelegant marketing person, who may create a credible business if he can dial down the jargon and the mantras. Lloyd-Mason is commercial, charming and has an unbending steeliness, which he undoubtedly utilises in any negotiation. They did not pat each other on the back and finish each other’s sentences. As parents of this baby business, only time will tell if they have created a sustainable marriage or whether, like so many other aspiring start-ups, even with marriage guidance, it cannot be saved.
I stared out the window at my favourite tree in full bloom in my garden, and contemplated how helpful this article was going to be. After about ten minutes, my phoned pinged. Julian had sent a laconic text: Why did you contradict me so much?
10. Family Second
“What were you thinking, Alex? Do you have so little respect for what I do? Important work, which you deride in public.”
Sadly, my over-optimism that he would not read The Times was shattered about an hour later by a phone call from my incandescent, hurt father, who had been alerted to the article by a well-meaning friend.
“It’s not like that, Dad. I was trying to talk about Zeyde’s influence on me growing up and perhaps it came out wrong. I wanted to explain where my ambition and drive came from.”
“I am not sure wha
t ‘right’ would have sounded like. And by the way, ambition is not just about commercial success, it is a political aspiration for improvement. You are seduced by the empty noise you generate in the pursuit of recognition. I have to say that, right now, I am not that proud of you, Alex.”
“Thanks a bunch. What should I do with that statement? You are not proud of me for building a business or you are not proud of me because I don’t share your world view?”
“You know what I feel. The liberation of technology has elevated the pursuit of individual glory above the benefits it brings to the masses.”
“Wow, Dad, bit heavy for the weekend. I’m still in my pyjamas, feeding Emily breakfast. Why are you making everything sound so much like a political treatise? My business has just been covered in a national newspaper. Can’t you say ‘well done’?”
He was momentarily silent. This normally meant that his enormous brain was performing some kind of complicated process of evaluating of whether to engage in an unpleasant argument or retract the confrontational stance in favour of long-term peace. When he resumed the conversation, he sounded much calmer, suggesting that a decision had been made.
“Alex, don’t be silly. You know I am always proud of you, no matter how much of a selfish little capitalist you are.”
‘That’s more like my loving father.”
“I just need you to try to remember that I raised you on the commune in Finchley to have some more socially aware values.”
“Of course, comrade.”
“Your grandfather was a great man and built a fine business. But he put nothing back into society around him.”
“Maybe, but I am grateful to him for paying my school fees.”
“You know I was overruled by your mother. I’d have sent you down the road to the local school without hesitation.”
“Convenient that Mum objected and overruled you, isn’t it? Best of both worlds. A great education for me without you having to make it happen.”
“All right, all right, let’s have a truce. It’s too tiring. We will see you tomorrow for tea as expected.” I didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him that I planned to be in the office all day Sunday and was unlikely to make it round.
“Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Well, judging by your recent commitment to your business, I’m not so sure. With regard to the article, Mum wants you to know that she likes the photo with the story, although why you were dressed as a guitarist from a rock band is beyond us. If only you could look a bit more like your business partner, Hugh Grant.”
Before we parted, he suddenly remembered something else he wanted to tell me.
“Oh, by the way, Alex, the Guardian is giving me a regular column to write about all things digital. They’re keen to get a more radical view on start-up culture. I’m thinking of calling the column ‘High Tech or No Tech’.”
“Sounds great, Dad. Very cool. Make sure you write nice things about us.”
And with that, our spat had ended.
***
Life carried on for the first eighteen months of our existence with the frenetic complexity that our desire for success created. It was a really pressurised time in which I felt unable to create a routine that gave me a semblance of normality. Work was one long uncompleted conversation and every time I focused on something elsewhere, I lost its thread and meaning. I have mentioned how little I was around for the kids, but the guilt was less than when I took time out of the office and was not completing a half-started project. When you are not thinking straight about all aspects of your life, you create mitigating arguments in your mind to excuse your behaviour. My false logic derived from the belief that if I was sacrificing a bit of family involvement now, we would all enjoy the benefits of my wealth creation further down the track. I was sure that money would bring choices, which would in turn guarantee greater happiness.
The pressure was unrelenting for everyone. Late one night, a few months after our launch, I was sitting with Dimitri, working on how to make the process of customer registration quicker, when a flustered Alice asked if she could have a chat.
We adjourned to a quiet corner of our busy office. It was nearly 10 p.m. and most of the team were still there. Alice took some deep breaths and tried to calm herself. She appeared slightly manic, a behaviour you would not have expected from her. Normally unflappable, she was definitely flapping a bit now.
‘What is it, Alice… you look like you’ve just run over a kitten?”
“No, that would never happen. I’m a careful cyclist.” Something must be up. She normally laughed at my jokes. Staring at some imaginary horizon over my left shoulder, her voice cracked.
“I don’t know how you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Put your life on hold to work so ridiculously hard.” I wondered where this had come from.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean. We’re a young business. We have a lot to do.”
She wasn’t satisfied with this answer. “When did you last read Theo a bedtime story? When did you last nip out for a quick Indian with Sarah?”
“She hates Indian food.”
Alice tutted. “Alex, can you stop being unfunny for a minute and listen to me. I am struggling because this business is ruining my life with Caroline and the kids. Don’t get me wrong, I knew we were going to be full on, but this doesn’t let up. I feel like I’ve discovered an ants’ nest and am trying to pick up the ants one by one. Don’t you question the effort versus the sacrifice?”
For a moment, I felt that I was undergoing a moral examination and, due to a lack of preparation, I would fail. The shallow truth was that I did not empathise with her conflict. I had convinced myself that if you showed any personal weakness, it would undermine your effort at the most crucial point in the company’s evolution. It was a binary choice between a balanced life or a successful business. Alice was exhausted by the incredible amount she had achieved in such a short space of time. It was up to me to say something consoling and inspiring.
“Well, at least your kids are guaranteed a great birthday experience this year.”
“Really, Alex, is that the best thing you could think of to say to me?” She had a point. I must have been more tired than I thought if that was the most sympathetic response I could muster.
“OK. Take two.” I gave her my most winsome smile. It didn’t work. She was impervious to what little charm I possessed. “What I meant to say is, of course it’s a strain on our family life. Sarah is not happy with me at all.” I’m not sure how I had the temerity to suggest this, as I’d been far too busy to actually enquire about her feelings. “It’s going to get better, of course it will. Look at what you’ve built in no time at all. It’s a remarkable achievement. You’ve been the glue in the business. You know the plan. As we grow, the support you’ll have will deepen. I guarantee, we will not be having this conversation in a year.”
“What if I’m not here in a year?” That threat was a bit unexpected and potentially disastrous. We literally could not find the stapler without Alice. I needed to be convincing in my response.
“Alice. That’s bollocks. You are of course going to be here for a long time to come, until the point at which facelesscorporation.com pays us millions for our endeavours. As much as I love the sound of my own voice, you love the results of bringing people together to achieve something great. I know you do.” It was working, she was listening and relaxing her clenched fists as I went in for the emotional kill.
“So, what we need to do is talk more. I don’t want you to store this frustration and internalise your stress. Find me. Shout at me. Kick me in the shins. But share, for God’s sake. And why don’t you take a long weekend next week to be with Caroline and the kids. We’ll still be trading when you come back.”
Alice looked at me calmly now, and it was clear that the momentary uncertainty had evaporated. She got up to go.
“Thank you, Alex. You have the bedside manner of an executioner, but you
’re right. I just need to get through this period until we build a more sustainable operation. I will take you up on the offer of a break. I really need to have a few days off seeing your smug face at such close proximity.”
“Excellent. Enjoy some time away.” As I said those words and contemplated her brief absence, I started to feel my pulse quicken in panic. “Make sure you have your phone on. Just for emergencies, of course.”
***
Julian, on the other hand, required very little soothing and was rarely overburdened by guilt for his domestic absence. He was hard-working and committed, but he would occasionally disappear, and in the melee of our crazy and unstructured working, we wouldn’t always notice. He always had a gym bag with him and, with my man-crush on his casual handsomeness and toned athleticism, I assumed therefore that he was off releasing those energising hormones associated with vigorous sport that I’d read about. As much as Julian eschewed endorsing the motivational messages I had plastered around the room, he was often teased for his favourite phrase, ‘A fit mind and a fit body are one and the same’, which he always chanted as he left to go and work out. He seemed to be overcompensating for something.
Our relationship was curious by this stage. We did work well together. He respected my unpredictable brain, which scattered ideas into the wind in the hope that occasionally one would have a chance of being developed. He acknowledged, however, that I was a competent marketer who would sell my grandmother to a pirate for a few more registrations. In turn, I had enormous respect for his shrewd instincts for potential partnerships and his tenacious quest for a good deal on any agreement that came our way – from an employment contract to a photocopier lease. Julian believed every commercial relationship was based on mutual distrust and a desire for exploitation. It was a conflict to be won.
