by Adam Leigh
It’s not just birthdays that need innovation and invention – other special occasions do too: bar mitzvahs and confirmations, exam success, sporting achievements, the arrival of the tooth fairy and the departure of your appendix or adenoids. Anything that requires a bit of parental pampering. But that is just the start.
Interminable school holidays? Weeks and weeks of empty diary space to fill. Playdates to orchestrate, places to visit, activities to invent from thin air. A guaranteed place in parent heaven if you manage to help them learn to origami the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the next day to juggle fire or unicycle. What if they are incentivised to sew their own costumes and put on a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor in your front room? How about you create a bespoke treasure hunt that keeps them entertained as they search out clues on your local high street based on the Victorian sewer system?
Then there are designer clothes that are environmentally friendly or tee shirts you can eat. There are online violin lessons for beginners so that you can decide if it is worth investing in their future virtuosity. Tap-dancing tuition and tango training for the romantic ten-year-old. What about more unusual exercise – yoga for tots, Pilates for prepubescents and circuit training for the badly coordinated? Bespoke stationery for messy left-handers, calculators for the short-sighted and puffy-fingered, wipe-off-the-floor oil paints, modelling clay you can microwave? You get the idea. Anyone who could promote a facet of modern parenting was a potential seller.
The final category was a publishing idea of Julian’s. He had worked on licensing deals with a number of publishing houses over the years and knew the sector well. He wanted us not simply to be able to provide products and services but to be an entertainment hub, and he had lots of interesting ideas. We could publish new authors’ works, create exclusive deals on audio books for established authors, and have a classics section where we opportunistically grabbed interesting (but possibly overlooked) works that had lapsed out of copyright. More ambitiously, we could work with production companies and create our own programming.
We wrote a six-year business plan with full revenue and cost projections and somehow, due to optimistic maths and prodigious chutzpah, arrived at a valuation by then of over £100m. We factored in rolling out the business globally and identified the first ten markets from which we would fan out our all-conquering empire. Julian and Simon were adamant that we create a hockey stick forecast, a term used for visually representing a miraculous increase in profitability after an initial flat period, while I favoured something more gently shaped. Julian attacked my conservatism late one evening when we were nearing the plan’s completion.
“Alex, am I marrying a little worrier, or do you sometimes cross the road without looking for the fun of it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am totally reckless in everything I do.”
“Seriously, mate, you have to realise that if you project a scintilla of doubt or nervousness, any prospective backer will run for the hills.”
He was right that I would have to develop a poker face going forward. I didn’t doubt my ability to embellish when necessary, even when asking someone for money, but Julian’s brazenness was chilling. The truth was clearly a distraction when it came to asking people for lots of money.
“I suppose I just need to keep some grounding in reality,” I conceded.
Julian gave me a look of withering condescension. “As my father used to say before they locked him up, ‘Don’t burden your ambition with a conscience.’”
“Positively Buddhist in its sentiment,” I quipped, and we carried on until the wee hours, steepening the angle of our revenue fantasies.
***
The business plan was a thing of beauty. Quite literally. It was art-directed by a designer friend who took my brief of ‘make it look good to hide the content’ a little too literally. Hand-drawn graphics, elegantly illustrated tables of figures – the whole thing conferred a stature that we were going to require if we wanted to be taken seriously.
Julian and I had debated what we needed the plan to say to get us the requisite funding. We had taken the collective decision that in order to grow at speed, we were going to have to get in quite a lot of money very quickly. There was very little time to attract lots of sellers and customers to the site concurrently, and we would not be able to do this with an operation that was made up of just a few of us. Rapid growth at all costs was going to be our corporate mantra.
Our sums went as follows. We calculated an initial value of £9m for the company. We would keep about 30 per cent each. We would keep around 10 per cent for junior partners (to date, Simon, Dimitri and Alice) and we would split the remaining 30 per cent between, ideally, two or three backers who would fund our first eighteen months or so until some revenue arrived. The more money we borrowed over time, the more, of course, we would have to dilute our own stake.
We were going to be frugal in our set-up and ascetic in behaviour. None of us would draw a salary of any sort for six months, then the junior partners would receive a modest allowance to help them pay their bus fare and buy sliced white bread and margarine for tea. Julian and I would remain salary-free for a year and then receive a very basic wage. Money was going to be tight at home.
Julian had done incredibly well to find a minimal-rent loft in Clerkenwell, left empty when a gaming app company had mysteriously disappeared as HMRC were threatening to break down the doors. He’d gone to school with the landlord and always bought the guy a Bakewell tart at the tuck shop, so was therefore owed a massive favour. We were launching in a 3,000-square-foot industrial-chic space wrapped in stainless steel and chrome, with its own goods lift and a professional Gaggia coffee machine kindly left to us by the previous tenants, unable to dismantle it as they fled to avoid debtors’ prison. The only other thing we had to pay for was water and electricity, and I had every intention of only allowing infrequent toilet flushes. Plus, the twilight glare of a laptop meant we’d not have to switch the lights on.
The final thing we needed was a logo and a strapline. You can create spreadsheets and anticipate imaginary growth forever, but a business that has the ambition to change global behaviour needs to look and sound cool. This was the most complicated part of our initial planning phase because Julian and I could not agree about anything. I took responsibility for its creation, begging favours from a range of former colleagues. I whittled the logos down to a choice of six very different designs. Julian turned out to be worse than any client I had ever had in demonstrating strong prejudice aligned to vague feedback.
“They just don’t make my heart skip a beat,” he opined as I spread the papers before him in his living room.
“You know, a good logo doesn’t need a defibrillator,” I retorted. It sounded an impressive comeback at the time, but on reflection it was a bit meaningless and Julian had looked flummoxed.
“I’m sorry, Alex, but they’re all mundane. They’ll make us as famous as Peter Higginbottom.”
“Who’s Peter Higginbottom?”
“My point entirely. He’s my next-door neighbour.”
“I think you’re totally wrong. I think one of them nails it and will work very well indeed. It’ll look great online. It’ll look great on tee shirts.”
Julian leaned forward and challenged me to elaborate.
“Go on then, punk. Which one of these designs do you think is worthy of my ambition for this business?”
I perhaps should have stopped at that point to consider what he’d just said. His ambition? I was so galvanised to resolve the logo issue that adrenaline precluded me from processing this rather arrogant self-importance. It was true that as we worked later and harder to get the plan completed, I missed quite a few little comments that later struck me as unnecessarily barbed. That night I was resolved simply to get him to agree an identity that would allow us to develop a look for the design of the business.
“This is the one and the only one that will do.” I held the design several inches from
his face in my attempt to prevent him disagreeing.
“I’ll go with it because you seem so insistent. But if it backfires and affects the business, I will hold you responsible and probably sue.”
I initially thought that this statement was just more banter. But Julian got up very quickly and grabbed our coffee mugs and marched towards the kitchen, leaving me unable to process his mood and deflated at having agreed the right identity for the business but without any pleasure.
“Goodnight, Alex, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he shouted flatly from the kitchen. The meeting was over, and I saw myself out.
The logo we selected will, of course, be familiar to you. The ‘P’ of ‘Prima’ is also used to form the word ‘Parent’ below. The simple visual representation of parenting is also multicoloured to remind you how warm and friendly we are. Rather clever, and it even won a design award back in 2013.
***
The final thing we needed was the strapline, which would encapsulate our aspiration for the business and its benefits ford its loyal global customers. In addition, this line needed to work in other languages – after all, you can’t conquer the world if they laugh at your syntax.
We brainstormed this one with the wider team. Julian and I wanted to democratise the process, so everyone was allowed to participate. We gathered one lunchtime at a large table hidden at the back of a Soho coffee shop. It was the first time Simon, Alice and Dimitri had met. We all shouted out ideas, except Dimitri, who sat writing code in the corner. After twenty minutes, he put some enormous headphones on to drown out this marketing piffle. The four of us shouted out trite phrases.
“Happy children deserve better parents.”
“Be a better parent every day.”
“Parenting made easy.”
It was all superficial, selling and soulless. By this stage, I was pacing with a marker pen in my hand, pretending I was going to eliminate child poverty. After forty-five minutes, we had scrawled some nonsense on a flip chart pad but the energy in the room was dissipating and my perkiness was starting to irritate everyone. In a throwaway comment, I mentioned that my obsession with the business was beginning to scare Sarah. She had demanded of me that ‘however hard I was going to work, not to forget that it was always family first’.
It was Alice who leapt to her feet.
“Oh, that’s it. So bloody obvious.”
“What is?” I asked.
“Sarah’s cracked it,” she continued in a voice that was now shouting. “Family First. It says what we do. Prima means First. We help people put their families ahead of anything else in the world. And it says something about us as an organisation. We should work hard, but Sarah is spot on. We must not lose sight of who we really are and what matters in our personal lives. It’s brilliant.”
Julian and Simon’s faces betrayed their bemusement. They looked as if they were stuck on a yoga retreat with an overly spiritual shaman. It was just not the way they thought. I felt differently.
“You are so right, Alice. Family First. It’s going to make us famous, and I bet it works in Swedish too.” I saw exciting possibilities ahead.
“Are we going to get some food, I am starving,” Dimitri chimed in, taking off his headphones and sensing the end of the meeting.
The boring bit was over. It was time to raise some money.
5. Family Matters
Julian and I resigned from our jobs with alacrity. I think I did everyone a bit of a favour, as the agency was struggling – quite frankly, my salary was a welcome saving, and we agreed that I could go immediately. I thought of filling my rucksack with staplers and photocopier toner, but in the end I slipped out quietly one Friday with a few Amazon vouchers, a hastily purchased card from the corner shop and the hope I’d never work for someone else again. Julian, on the other hand, invited me to his grand leaving drinks, which all the partners attended as if bidding a regretful farewell to their own offspring. He was infuriatingly popular.
I decided it was time to introduce each other to our respective families. Sarah was increasingly fascinated by the mysterious individual who had driven me from the marital bed to late-night business planning sessions. She wasn’t suspicious but wanted reassurance that this new sense of mission permeating my every utterance was shared with someone worthwhile.
“After all,” she told me during one midnight feed when I returned home, “if I’m going to lose you to Julian, I want to know that he won’t dump you when a more attractive entrepreneur comes along.”
We hastily arranged a dinner a few days later. I suggested they come to our house for a takeaway. Initially, Julian seemed reluctant and a bit uncertain why it was necessary. I knew his wife, Catherine, was a management consultant and, like Sarah, on maternity leave, but she rarely came up in conversation. I was always quoting Sarah’s thoughts as if she was a silent partner in the venture. Catherine, on the other hand, was most decidedly an irrelevance to any of our plans. After cajoling Julian with the promise of my best wine and as many Pringles as he could eat, he relented and sent a quick text to Catherine confirming a date and time. He remained overtly ambivalent to the evening and would probably have preferred a trip to the local crematorium over a night out with his wife.
Sarah had ignored the suggestion of a takeaway and prepared a lovely dinner during snatched respite when Emily was sleeping. When they arrived, Julian was initially at his most engaging and began a conversation with her, nodding enthusiastically as if they were on a blind date. I talked to Catherine, who was polite but uneffusive. I stared at my shoes a fair bit to avoid the awkward silences that seemed to be the result of my attempts at small talk. She became more energised when I enquired about her professional life. She was a partner at a small tech consultancy and couldn’t wait to be back at work, unrepentant for her disdain for her current status.
“You’re meant to love being at home with children. I have three screaming brats – four if you include Julian.” She smiled at her joke and gulped half of her second glass of Merlot without pausing. If she was still breastfeeding, she would have a comatose child that night.
“So, what do you think of our idea?” I asked. She would have some very interesting thoughts on the subject, given the nature of the advisory work she did every day for her digitally based clients. I was actually anxious to receive her validation.
“I’m afraid I don’t really know too much about it.” She looked rather sheepish, as if realising how absurd that sounded.
“Don’t joke,” I continued, “I’m sure you know more about what we need to do than any of us. I’d really welcome some advice.”
“That’s very kind of you, Alex, to have such belief in me. But Julian is less convinced. He’s said it’s something to do with parenting, but that’s about it. After recovering from the shock of Julian having an interest in anything to do with children, I haven’t really pushed him on it.”
“Why not?” I asked, fearful that their marital health was not what I wanted to hear about. Catherine responded angrily.
“Because I’m afraid you don’t know my husband that well. You’ve probably been ensnared by his effortless charm and wit. Happens to us all. I’m afraid, Alex, my husband has the ethics of a serial killer. You’ve probably heard the whole routine about his father in prison, as if this has given him a focus and justification for success. Julian is just a bloke on the make who has a tremendous sense of entitlement. He wants money and he wants recognition. Doesn’t care about anyone and would quite literally decapitate anyone who stands in the way. You’ll be wondering why we’re still together?”
Too right I was. I was also wondering how much more unpleasant the evening could become and if I was about to enter into a business marriage that would end up loveless and bitter because I had fallen for a sociopath. The awkwardness was punctured by Sarah arriving from the kitchen, where she had been chatting with Julian, and announcing it was time to eat. I mumbled something to Catherine about being sorry. I may have also mentioned that Sarah’s pesto
sauce was going to be delicious. I was not managing to hide my embarrassment convincingly.
We adjourned to the dining room. Sarah, sensing the tension between our guests, launched into conversation with Catherine, while Julian and I talked about our forthcoming pitches for money. They could have been strangers, so little did they interact. I also noticed with some trepidation that I was pouring wine with an unfamiliar frequency. A couple of glasses and I’m groggy and liable to fall asleep, even when standing. Julian and Catherine drank with swagger and gusto, emptying glass after glass as I struggled to open another bottle with the complicated sommelier’s corkscrew I’d been given for my wedding.
“I’m going to have to switch to screw tops – it’ll be so much quicker,” I whispered to Sarah as we cleared the plates.
“They hate each other,” Sarah replied with alarm. “She’s been telling me – when she thinks he’s not listening – that he is ruthless. Do you know what you’re doing?”
I was, of course, very concerned, but couldn’t let on to Sarah. You don’t alienate your number-one supporter. “Sarah, his marriage is not relevant to our business. It’s unfortunate, but not really going to have an impact.”
“Oh Alex, you don’t believe this, do you? The way he treats his wife is going to be the way he treats his company. Smell the coffee, please.”
Trying to avoid the issue deftly, I took out a packet of coffee beans from the cupboard and inhaled theatrically. “Smells delicious.”
Sarah rolled her eyes with familiar disappointment and walked towards the table to confront the glacial silence that had descended between husband and wife. She was ever the elegant host who knew how to behave, irrespective of the situation. “Who wants lemon tart?”
Julian, slurring, swaying and long past coherence, held out his plate. Catherine seemed tearful. I counted the minutes until I could call them a cab.
***
My first pitch was not to an investor, but to my family a couple of days later, round the Friday-night dinner table at my parents’ house.