by Adam Leigh
“OK, you may be on to something. But I want editorial control. If I do it, I’ll make us sound normal. If you draft it, you’ll deliberately make me sound like I’m a sociopath. But this has to be our secret and completely protected. They’ll shut us down if they find out.”
“They’re not going to find out. They’ll look for an endorsement that we’re functioning well together. They’re not going to care where we’re going to have our psyches probed.”
As luck would have it, we didn’t need to invent a coach and mentor. No, we went one better. We bribed someone to let us write the reports, which she would send on our behalf. Dr Erika McNab was the younger sister of Julian’s mother’s best friend. (Do try to keep up.) She had spent her life as a CEO in the male-dominated sector of oil and gas, commodities and derivatives, and was now a highly respected non-exec director, coach and mentor. Fortunately, she loved opera even more than she did professional rectitude. Julian somehow managed to persuade her that regular tickets to the Royal Opera House and Glyndebourne would be adequate recompense for kindly sending an email four times a year to the Johnsons.
A month or so after receiving the first instalment of our money, we sent a three-page detailed summary of a meeting that never happened. The concluding paragraph was carefully constructed by me late one night to be credibly compelling and establish a narrative that outlined our bogus commitment to self-improvement:
I asked Julian and Alex to restate their objectives for our future sessions and their answers attested to a realisation that their working compatibility and interdependent skills were strong, but their desire for leadership pre-eminence needed to be lessened to ensure a more supportive partnership.
Alex stated: ‘You know Julian and I can get quite tetchy at times and this is not always helpful, but it comes from a place of mutual respect and we have to be more mindful that we are co-CEOs. One of us is not more important than the other.’
Julian added: ‘I really think I am better working with Alex than I am working on my own. I suppose years of being sent away to school and trying to prove myself has made me a bit ruthlessly independent. I welcome your help in addressing this.’
How ironic. Just as this beautifully crafted fiction about our healthy and respectful relationship was being sent to our unsuspecting backers, it was in reality beginning to disintegrate like a sandcastle at high tide.
***
During the Christmas holidays, I took some time off to reconnect with my family. The children thought I was a soldier returning from an obscure war: they knew they had seen me before, they just couldn’t quite place where. I was exhausted from the year and spent much of the time in a state of narcolepsy, dozing whenever I stopped moving for a second. The morning was crisp and clear, and we all sat at breakfast, dappled in wintry sunshine, momentarily becalmed as a family. I was enjoying a breakfast with the kids of all manner of inappropriate sugar-based delicacies in the hope that the energy rush would sustain me through an impending visit from Sarah’s mother. My lovely wife was ensconced in a rare child-free moment and pored over the paper, oblivious to the Coco-Pops carnage I was creating.
“Bastard. Bastard. Bastard!” she suddenly screamed.
“Steady on. I’m just giving the kids their breakfast,” I replied instinctively.
“Not you. Julian.”
“What are you talking about?”
She tossed the paper to me angrily, as if I had been responsible for whatever she’d just read. The headline simply stated: ‘Lucy Reveals New Beau’, and below it was a picture of the gorgeous award-winning, Oxford-educated, RSC-trained, Hollywood-blockbuster star Lucy Vogel. She was on a red carpet promoting her latest movie, and standing with his arm draped protectively around her was the handsome, immaculately dressed, stubbly-faced Julian. I felt a ripple of instinctive jealously as I sat in my Bart Simpson tee shirt and tatty boxers. I’d never look that good. The accompanying text box contained little copy:
BAFTA-winning actress Lucy Vogel introduced her new boyfriend to the press at the premiere in Leicester Square of her latest film, To Love Another. He is Julian Lloyd-Mason, 38, founder and CEO of the website PrimaParent.com.
“You’re right,” I said angrily. “He is a total bastard.”
“At last,” sighed Sarah, “you can see it.”
“I mean, why would he call himself founder and CEO? He’s co-founder and co-CEO.”
Sarah looked at me with an expression of resigned disappointment and then muttered loudly under her breath, prompting ever-alert Theo to shout enthusiastically, “Mummy’s just called Daddy the F-word.”
I realised that perhaps I’d put my self-interest and vanity in front of the correct response from a sensitive and loving husband. It was lucky I hadn’t articulated the other thought that had crossed my mind, which was that we’d got some pretty good free publicity in a national newspaper.
“You’re right, of course. It’s pretty disgraceful parading himself so smugly. How horrible for Catherine.” That’s always what a shallow bloke like me thinks when they see a friend escorting a beautiful movie star.
“Look, Alex, everyone knew Julian would move on in minutes. But he looks so pleased with himself. It’s like he’s telling Catherine, Sorry, love, but I just had to upgrade.” I nodded and admitted to her what I was actually feeling.
“That’s the thing about Julian. He seems to be able to operate above us all. He’s a sort of magnet for glamour and success, but oblivious to damaging people along the way. I’m always ducking and diving to avoid being the next casualty.” It sounded like I was paraphrasing something I had once read.
Sarah was not impressed by my explanation. She turned her back on me to prove the point that, once again, I did not have quite the empathy she expected. Tutting to herself as she turned the page of the paper, she simply muttered, “I just hope she dumps him for a much more muscular leading man on her next film.”
***
Several days later, we all returned to the office to start a new year of graft. Grabbing coffees, Alice and I sat down to compare notes on our few days away.
“It wasn’t so great for me this year,” Alice bemoaned. “You know, however long I’ve been with Caroline, whenever we go to my parents, they still can’t quite accept the relationship. They love their grandchildren – I just get the impression they would prefer them to be raised by heterosexual criminals than a couple of lesbians who like to hold hands in public.”
“Sounds a bit like my relationship with Sarah’s mother. She would happily take a murderer who works nine-to-five over me, I’m sure.”
“My mother kept trying to pretend to be understanding and worldly, but unfortunately she blew it when she asked Caroline if she was very active in the Lesbian G&T + community.”
Our laughter was muffled by the clunking grating of the lift arriving, its cables groaning under the weight of the task. This year we really needed to get an engineer round to look at trying to oil a cable or two. The door opened and Julian emerged with a flourish, as if expecting applause. He was pristine in clothes that looked like they had come straight out of the new Armani ‘my other half is actually a famous movie star’ range. Seeing us sequestered with our coffees in the corner, he marched towards us with an expression of unbridled self-satisfaction.
“Happy New Year, co-workers. Did Santa get you everything on your list?” He hugged us both, which certainly caught Alice by surprise.
“I think he missed me out this year,” I said. “He was too busy making your dreams come true.” Alice and I hadn’t discussed Julian’s new domestic arrangement, but she clearly knew about it too, because she mischievously put on a simpering luvvie voice, wiped a few invisible tears from her cheek and pronounced: “And I couldn’t have won this Oscar without the love of my partner and guide in life, Julian. This is for you.” She thrust an imaginary statuette in the air and blew a few kisses to no one in particular.
Julian clutched his stomach and said with adolescent sarcasm, “You two
are just beyond funny. Come to think of it, what lies beyond funny? Oh yes, unfunny.”
I raised my hand, as if to say it was time for a truce, and continued, “Well, Julian, we’re just very proud of you for finding a way of getting our name in the papers. Smart move. And when we’ve sold the business, you can dump her as she’ll no longer serve a purpose.”
“Or I can stay with her and just dump you for a vaguely competent partner.” As ever with Julian, the distinction between banter and nastiness was hard to see. Aware that perhaps he had overreacted, he put a placatory hand on my arm and looked at us both wistfully.
“Right, chaps, let’s stop all this joking. I know my new public profile has an impact on the business, good and bad. It certainly made for a tricky Christmas for me.”
“How has Catherine reacted?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“Let’s just say, she has a few bits of crockery missing now. Luckily, I have good reactions and she has a pretty poor aim.”
“You didn’t tell her about your new relationship before you stepped on a red carpet with a huge movie star in front of the entire world?” asked Alice with incredulity.
“Please don’t judge me, Alice, it’s not your place.”
“How was the film, anyway?” I chipped in, trying to change the subject.
“Loved it, although it’s a bit weird watching your new girlfriend have sex with another man on an IMAX screen. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. You should see her next role.”
We were all silent, not really sure what to say. Fame and celebrity were quite seductive to me and I was fascinated by the implications of Julian’s new life. What would it be like to be recognised? How could you enjoy a quiet meal ever again? I wondered if my profile would change when we published The Galaxy Slayer’s Last Stand. I suppose my ambition was fuelled by some rather unimpressive vanity too.
The nice part of me, buried deep but still flickering with light occasionally, knew that Julian was something of a cad. He had impeccable manners but shoddy values. By now it was clear that, for him, dealing with Catherine was an inconvenient rather than remorseful experience.
Alice announced that she had proper work to do and walked away from us. Julian gestured towards The Bored Room, shutting the door after me. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be told off or he was going to show me photos on his phone of his new glamour-filled life.
“Listen, mate,” he began breezily, “I just wanted to inform you that I’m going to need to take some money out of the business.”
“Does Lucy have expensive tastes, then? Shame, you used to love a trip to Pizza Hut.”
“Catherine has cut up very rough. I’m going to have some hefty legal bills pretty quickly.”
What to do? Part of me felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for him. Perhaps he was going to have to fight unceremoniously for some tenuous access to his children. However, his request also made me very uneasy. After all, we were raising money to grow the business and most certainly not to spend on ourselves.
“Julian. That’s a tricky request, isn’t it? You know that Moshe or the Johnsons are not going to feel that positive towards you if they think they’re spending money on your custody battle?”
“Why do they have to be told?”
“Because I don’t want to build a business where we lie to the people who back us.” I said this with spontaneous conviction. I was clear that Julian could not deviate from our agreed remuneration plans.
“That’s your view. I’ve put everything into the business for the last two years. I’ve made sacrifices and now you won’t listen. Look, just because you and saintly Sarah have a perfect marriage doesn’t mean that it’s easy for everyone else. I’m asking for some help, Alex. This won’t happen that often, I can assure you.”
“What do you want me to say? Of course I want to be helpful. I’m just not sure that we can do this right now.”
He got up to leave and the familiar froideur returned. “In truth, I’m not that bothered by your concerns, but I wanted to see if there was any possibility for future friendship between us. Don’t stress about our backers. I’ve actually contacted them all and told them what I need. The money shouldn’t be a problem at all.”
With that, he left the room without looking back.
***
Our new finance director had been with us for a few months by that time. After we’d dismissed Simon, Alice and I had led a search for someone with more probity, experience and basic arithmetic skills. The process had been rather torturous as every time we found a candidate we liked, Julian exercised his veto with gusto. His objections were often spurious, but hard to override. One candidate was dismissed because he had a quiet and slightly timid voice, irrelevant to his unquestionable competence but for Julian an illustration of what he called ‘reckless indecision’.
In the end, our pressing need for financial leadership outweighed the barrage of objections that Julian consistently fired our way. We appointed Samantha Lane, who, having worked for another successful start-up, the fitness app runfurther, was seduced by our energy and success. She was proving a dependable and extremely smart addition to the team. Her elegant calmness was sorely tested several days after my confrontation with Julian, when she received an email that prompted her to find me and ask if we could go out of the office to discuss something.
It was unfortunately snowy and freezing that morning, so our discreet getaway was slightly undone by being forced to put on our hefty coats and scarfs and then wait for a minute until the world’s noisiest lift could announce to the office that we were leaving it together. We sat in a nearby café in a quiet corner. She handed me a printed email.
“What is going on, please, Alex?”
The email was from Julian to Samantha and was copied to all our principal investors. My name was conspicuously absent.
Samantha,
Please transfer £50,000 to my personal account forthwith. The sum is to be deducted from all future dividend payments to me and should be recorded as such. Approval has been received from above investors.
Julian
There were three other emails from our investors, which all contained the single word ‘Approved’. I didn’t know what to say to Samantha other than that I felt more emasculated than ever by Julian’s single-minded pursuit of his own needs.
In the end, clouded by anger and frustration, I simply said, “I suppose he’s using a very expensive lawyer and Catherine is pretty angry.”
“That’s irrelevant. You can’t be a start-up and use your seed capital as a personal loan. What next? He wants to buy a new car? He wants to hire a yacht to impress his new lady?”
“You are, of course, right. I just wish he’d involved me in the discussion. I’m going to speak to them all and check that he’s told them the truth in full.”
“You do that, Alex. You’re going to need to stand up to him or he’ll take everything.” She was not just a good finance director but an accurate judge of character.
***
“Moshe, Happy New Year. Hope it’s a good one for us all.” I started the conversation an hour later in as light a fashion as I could.
‘What do you want, Alex?” he replied curtly. ‘I am in the middle of signing a big deal with the government. I haven’t got time for you now.”
“I’ll be quick. Did you agree to Julian’s loan? I want to know that you’re genuinely on board.”
“If you are asking me the question, then you know the answer and have seen my email.”
“And you are happy to support his divorce lawyers with your money.”
“You know, perhaps it is time for you to realise something, Alex.”
“Tell me.”
“You have a partner who will be more successful than you because he doesn’t rely on his conscience to tell him what he needs to do. He does as he pleases. We all work like that – me, George, Brooke and Cole. But not, it seems, you.”
“That’s your view. I’m onl
y concerned that the money we’ve worked so hard to secure is not being used to build the company. You can keep telling me I’m too weak, but I want to understand why Julian is doing this with your blessing.”
Moshe paused for a moment. I wasn’t sure if he’d put me on mute to continue another conversation or was simply revelling in a crude demonstration of his power. When he spoke, it was softly.
“Listen carefully. Julian will destroy you if you let him. You need to fight to hold on to what you are building. Yes, I have let him have the money and it is outrageous, but I have spoken to the John-sons and George. We agreed to let him progress. We did it, though, because we want to see how you will respond.”
“What do you mean?”
“It might well be that PrimaParent doesn’t have room for two leaders. It is time to put the two angry dogs in a sack and see who comes out barking.” With that, the phone clicked silent and he was gone. I didn’t know if the reference to dogs was a well-known homily. I just knew it was time to sharpen my claws.
***
Julian and I were stiffly formal with one another for the following few days. We sat in meetings in happy agreement, carrying on superficially as if we were an effective and collaborative team. It seemed pointless to do anything different. But, like a true obsessive, I continually devised stratagems for self-preservation. I was never very good at chess. I would get bored and my limited attention span would struggle to plan moves in advance. But I knew that I was like the medieval Knight playing chess against Death in that pretentious Swedish film I mentioned. One bad move and it was a life in entrepreneurs’ hell for me.
I was consoled by the fact that the business respected Julian, but he was not particularly liked. He had the cavalier brusqueness of a bullying sixth-form prefect. If he was nice to you, your self-esteem was bolstered. If he was irritated, his charm was eclipsed by a mocking cruelty. Julian’s nastiness was gender-neutral. Tears were commonplace among our less robust team members and my shoulder, offered in times of need, was becoming increasingly damp.