by Adam Leigh
It sounded like an English exam question from a teacher with a short attention span. As you know, I prefer either a florid speech or a pithy summary, so I started to sift throughthe relevant fragments of memory to do justice to my fascinating life story.
“Well, I think the last time we saw each other you were being dragged away in a police van.”
“Ah yes,” he reflected wistfully. ‘My drugs empire cruelly dismantled by the repressive authorities.”
“Nigel, you were selling drugs to fourteen-year-olds in swimming pool changing rooms. You were hardly Scarface. Anyway, where to begin? I went to university and read history.” He immediately looked bored, so I decided to speed up my life story a little.
“Worked in advertising for fifteen or so years. Married to a GP. Two children.” Nigel gave a large theatrical yawn. Emboldened by his evident disdain, I thought there was no point mentioning any other biographical detail that would make me more mundane in his eyes. Sod him, I was going to proclaim my greatness.
“This year, I launched what will become the most successful parenting website in the world and will make me so much richer than you, writing those silly books of yours. PrimaParent is only a few months old, but we are being talked about as the next digital unicorn.” (How’s that for bravura?) He considered the statement for a second and his expression changed to one of contemplation. Maybe I wasn’t such a suburban dullard after all?
“You have some spirit, Lazarus. I was worried you had sunk to a level of ordinariness that exceeded the mediocrity you showed at school.” I had read in articles about him that he had few friends and was something of a loner, and now I understood why.
“Nigel, your feedback means the world to me, but let’s talk about you. What are you writing now?” I was desperate to change the subject and suddenly longing for my bed. He was exhausting, like an overtired toddler.
“I have just completed the fifth and best book in the series. I am surprised you have not been following the dispute I am having with my publisher.” He seemed offended. Actually, I vaguely recalled that I had read he’d gone on a ‘writer’s strike’ because he didn’t want to kowtow to his contractual requirements.
“But if you’re in a dispute with your publisher, when and how is the book going to appear?”
“I have so much money I make Croesus look like a pauper, and therefore I can employ the most aggressive lawyer imaginable to get me out of my onerous contract. I most definitely will not be in thrall to these people who have bought second homes and garish boats as a consequence of the brilliance of my creative muse.”
“So how are you going to get the next one published then?”
“That, indeed, is the sixty-four billion dollar question. I have publishing vultures hovering overhead waiting to swoop down and gobble up the entrails of my last contract. I am being courted by the literati of London to win my favour and the faux adoration is quite frankly demeaning.”
A little thought wormed into my head. It was so ridiculous that it could not be adequately described as ‘chutzpah’. It was way beyond that. I heard Julian’s voice in endless meetings state that our success would evolve from becoming a proper content hub.
“I tell you what, Nigel,” I proclaimed with a flourish. “Why don’t you let my amazing site publish your next book? We are all about giving parents the chance to do amazing things for their kids. What could they do that’s better than giving them an exclusive chance to read the next ‘Resilient Martian’ book?”
“Alex, I appreciate that you want to make an impression, but you are elevating yourself way above your natural little station in life. You are tiny Alex Lazarus. Husband to a GP and father to ordinary children. You are a follower. You couldn’t inspire. Why would I want to be associated with you?”
By now I was oblivious to how rude he was. It was late at night and I was in no rush to go home. Somehow I had managed to remember to text Sarah as we sat down, with the cryptic message: Am going for drink with Clyde Pilestone. Will explain. She had immediately replied: Don’t rush back, am in bed with Idris Elba. I realised I would have a job to do to convince everyone, but at that moment, it was time to rise to the challenge that Nigel had issued.
This was yet another pitch, but possibly the most important one I had made to date. Calmly, I very quickly outlined the vision for the business and why we believed we would become not just a marketplace but also a natural home for entertainment brands. Nigel actually forgot his affectation and asked some perceptive questions, which I did not expect.
After perhaps twenty minutes, I could see that it was time to reach a conclusion as the booze was beginning to defeat him and he struggled to stifle a series of expansive yawns. I had once been told that if you were ever in danger of losing an audience, make an unexpected noise to refocus their energy. I saw Nigel sinking into sleep’s willing embrace and I panicked. Should I clap my hands or just yell ‘Wake up, sleepyhead’? In the end, hedging my bets, I did a bit of everything and made a strange noise that was a cross between a yodel and a football chant.
I stood up and confidently made this promise while leaning over him: “I guarantee you one thing if you let me publish your book on PrimaParent”
“What’s that, my child?”
“You will piss off the entire publishing and literary world and make a lot of people very angry.”
Nigel O’Connor aka Cylde Pilestone leapt up and embraced me. My nose was forced into the crook of his arm and I was engulfed by a noxious combination of stale smoke and sour alcohol. Not answering my question, he simply chose to recite some poetry:
“Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive / But to be young was very heaven!”
“Very nice quote. But does that mean we have a deal?”
“It’s Wordsworth, you fool, describing the French Revolution. We are about to cause mayhem and dismantle the establishment. So, you bet we have a deal, my little friend. My expensive lawyers will contact your cheap grubby ones tomorrow. Rancour will be rife, and the riled will request revenge. Now let’s drink together properly.”
He raised his hand and out of the darkness a waitress appeared. And I knew I was in for a long night.
“Champagne, Celestial Maiden! The world is about to think I am even more bonkers than usual.”
13. Acceleration
“Clyde Pilestone is letting us publish his next novel. Of course he is. And I got a text from Mozart asking if we could stream his latest opera.” Julian folded his arms contemptuously. My attempt to explain what had happened the night before was not going too well.
“First Sarah and then you. Why won’t anyone believe me?” I had dragged myself to work early with an enormous hangover to grab a coffee with him. Hangovers were fairly unfamiliar, but Nigel had insisted that I carouse with him until 3 a.m., although I tried to pace myself by sipping timidly and watering an adjacent plant when Nigel wasn’t looking.
“Alex, you cannot be telling the truth. Did you misunderstand your conversation with him? Perhaps he just said that he was happy to give you a signed copy of his next book?”
“I appreciate this is a bit unexpected, but I promise you that it both happened and is agreed. Look, he’s weirder than Dimitri, but I appealed to his rebellious nature and he basically wants to create publishing mayhem. I know it won’t be easy to finalise everything, but we may just have become the luckiest start-up in Shoreditch.”
Julian looked at me sourly. I wasn’t expecting him to eulogise my brilliance, but I had hoped he’d show a bit more enthusiasm than he was currently mustering. When I went through the minutiae of the conversation as best I could recall, he nodded a lot and was clearly convinced that I was not fantasising. His praise was circumspect.
“Well done, old chap. But the devil will be in the details that I have to negotiate with his lawyers, who I am sure, unlike their client, will be totally sober.” It was odd how he had appropriated the responsibility so quickly. Fortunately, before I said something really combative, we were join
ed by Alice and Dimitri, who had intuited that we were clearly having a significant conversation and did not want to be excluded.
“What are you two egomaniacs arguing about this time?” Alice asked chirpily, spot on in her character assessment. The excitement of the opportunity had become enmeshed in our budding rivalry. Even Dimitri, a man with the emotional intelligence of a man without emotional intelligence, sensed tension.
“Alex. Julian. Tell us what the problem is. It had better be big to take me away from proper work.”
Julian smiled and ran his hand through his shiny floppy hair, which I had come to realise was his way of drawing attention to what he was about to say.
“All is good. We have some very exciting news to tell you about an unexpected development we’ve been working on.” I’m not sure he could have irritated me more at that moment if he’d produced a feather duster and tickled me in the face. I resented his doubt that I could bring in something so significant to the business and I especially resented his subsequent appropriation of the success. Making it even worse, he turned to me and said, “Alex, why don’t you tell them our news?”
I gritted my teeth and decided, for the time being, to be the nobler man. Jumping to my feet with the irritating perkiness of a children’s TV presenter, I asked: “Who likes the ‘Resilient Martian’ series of books?”
To my surprise, Dimitri smiled broadly. “I love them. First book I read in English.”
Alice was more circumspect. “Not really my bag. Working with you lot is enough of an unreal world of adventure for me. But I know lots of normal people who love them. Why do you ask?”
“Because we are going to have the exclusive rights to publish the next one.”
“Of course we are. And I’ve been asked to star in the next James Bond film.” Dimitri made himself chuckle with that one.
Alice didn’t want to be left out of the banter. “Don’t mock, everyone. If he says that one of the most successful writers in the world wants to give our little operation the chance to publish his book, who am I to disbelieve him.”
Julian was smirking, as Alex-baiting was his favourite sport. I told the story again in a precise and unemotional rendition, minimising the triumphalism and concentrating on the enormity of the opportunity. When I reached a natural conclusion there was the silence of disbelief, coupled with the realisation that today was pivotal for all of our futures. Julian took charge.
“Not so inept, is he?”
Dimitri grimaced and started to drum the table with his fingers, which I had come to recognise as a sign of fear. “How are we going to cope with demand? It will be like an invasion. You never told me I was going to have to build something that could cope with this. Of course, you are all not smart enough to have thought this through.”
Alice was also succumbing to mounting panic. “I mean, of course it’s a good thing, but it’s also a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong, Alex – wow, how did you pull this off? But we could drown. We could become the target of lunatic fans who are disappointed if something goes wrong. This could be too big an opportunity.” She trailed off, losing herself in distracted fear and catastrophising.
Sensing the need for leadership, if not a killer speech, I said, “Right, chaps. This is huge. We are ambitious. We are simply going to make it work, starting now,” and I got up and walked out of the meeting room. When I arrived at my computer and sat down, I glanced back to see if everyone had followed me, but they were clearly rooted to the spot in fear. After a couple of minutes, I began to suspect that my grand gesture had not worked as hoped, so I sheepishly popped my head round the door to see Julian standing, pen in hand, by the flip chart, orchestrating an animated discussion.
“Oh, we thought you couldn’t handle the pressure, so we started without you.”
***
I called Nigel the next day to confirm that I had not dreamt the whole thing, which of course would have been supremely embarrassing after assiduously overcoming the collective doubt of my colleagues. To my pleasant surprise, he had actually taken decisive action himself and informed his lawyers to take our call and not question his decision. He concluded with an arcane phrase: “This will be a Sisyphean task for you, Alex, but I want it to happen.”
I thanked him and, after hanging up, quickly looked up the myth of Sisyphus, the ancient king condemned to push a huge rock up a steep hill, only for it to keep rolling back. I was going to have to mug up on Greek myth if I was to stay interesting to Nigel.
Later that day, we got a call from his lawyer and his agent, Kate Williams. She was polite, but most definitely bemused by the events that had unfolded. There was a clear danger of her being made to look an epic fool rather than a classical hero if this went wrong. Julian and I met her the following day to tell her about our business. With a look of pain and despair, she politely heard our sales pitch, which suggested our aim had always been to become a publishing hub for global blockbusters. She made no attempt to hide her feelings as she put her head in her hands and groaned. We knew she was being theatrical to make a point, but we still felt pretty silly sitting there waiting for her to say something nice, which seemed increasingly unlikely.
“Gentlemen, and I say this with enormous respect and even a bit of admiration: you are both, without doubt, the biggest chancers I have met in some time. The level of your ambition is only, it seems, matched by the scale of your bullshit. The temerity you have displayed in persuading my client to do something reckless with his literary future is so staggering that it might just overcome and kill me. This is the most ludicrous idea Nigel has ever had, and I suppose, Alex, you should be applauded for the surgical precision with which you have identified his suicidal recklessness in tackling the literary establishment.”
She was flushed by now with either anger or despair, probably both. Julian, undeterred, smiled at her unctuously and said, “So, where do we sign?” Kate looked momentarily like she wanted to assault him with the heavy clay teapot on the meeting room table, but then dissolved into helpless and slightly manic laughter.
“That pretentious twat will be the death of me. He is completely unhinged and spoiling for a fight at any hour. Even if I proved to him that you both had a criminal record for kidnapping children or were morris dancers in your spare time, I don’t think I could dissuade him from an idea once he has committed. Let’s ignore the fact that this is the worst idea imaginable and pretend you know what you’re doing.”
“Kate, you can trust us,” said Julian, with all the sincerity of a carpet salesman.
“Julian, I assure you I never will, but we will make do. Now, let me tell you how the book is coming on. I suppose he didn’t mention that it isn’t quite finished yet?”
“Actually, he gave me the impression that it was ready to upload to our site tomorrow. Must have been the sixth Calvados that made his thinking a little fuzzy.”
“No, this one has been a bit more problematic for him and he’s secretly nervous about its reception. I suspect that’s why he’s happy to bury it on an obscure website. No offence, lads.”
“None taken. How long have we got?” Secretly, I was very relieved.
“You probably have nine months, give or take. But don’t underestimate how much there is to do. I haven’t quite got him out of his current deal, and we haven’t even broached the subject of how we make some money when this book comes out. The way I see it, you’re going to get a lot of traffic to your site, which is going to raise its value significantly. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give you anything more than that.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Kate.” Julian flashed his most alluring smile, which I had seen him do many times. I’m sure he wasn’t flirting, but he had the arrogance of a very handsome man whose success was buoyed by his self-belief.
“Of course I do. I have to protect Nigel’s interests. After all, we’re getting married in three months.” Smiling, as an afterthought she raised her left hand to prove the point and flashed a shiny platinum ring with a lustr
ous, twinkling diamond the size of a golf ball.
***
The next few weeks were frenzied mayhem. There was no margin for error in any of our decisions and I told myself that everything needed to be sacrificed in the pursuit of this opportunity. It made me unreasonable in the office and not much better when I was at home. Sarah told me one evening, when I could hardly speak through a combination of exhaustion and overwhelming fear, that our family life was ‘running on fumes’. We didn’t speak too much more about it, but I made a commitment that I would stop by the garage for a top-up, just as soon as I could see straight.
Julian spent an inordinate amount of time with Kate and an enormous team of lawyers, accountants and representatives of the different interested parties in the work of Clyde Pilestone. I joined him for some meetings but trusted him to secure a deal that would allow us maximum benefit from this unusual partnership. Our presence was met with incredulity as they watched the money machine being dismantled needlessly by its author. Julian relished their resentment. Safe in the knowledge that we were untouchable because of Nigel’s patronage, he used a combination of arrogance and unreasonableness as his principal negotiating technique.
Nigel only wanted to deal with me and had no interest in meeting my business partner, much to the annoyance of Julian, who felt that I was controlling the relationship to exclude him from participating properly. I was sandwiched between two contrasting views – Nigel, who demanded that whenever we met it was just us, after 10 p.m. and underpinned by steady late-night drinking, my worst nightmare, and Julian, whose admonishments to be included were incessant and angry.
“Alex, how on earth can I negotiate properly unless I can have a relationship with him? Be the bigger man and allow me to participate. Stop worrying about me stealing your precious school friend.” I tried to tell him it wasn’t my decision, but he didn’t believe me. In the end, there was a brief meeting at Kate’s offices when Nigel stopped by to take his fiancée out for lunch. He was a different person in front of her, and the pretension was replaced by someone softer. Julian was surprised by the down-to-earth and meek individual who was not the cavalier iconoclast I had painstakingly described. What I now realised underpinned Nigel’s many complex personas was a fear of failure and sensitivity to criticism. He was terrified his latest book would be an abject failure and he would be jettisoned from public affection. He had struggled to write this last instalment and was reluctant to let it out before it had undergone meticulous and paranoid revisions.
