The Curious Rise of Alex Lazarus

by Adam Leigh

  The furore, in the end, probably lost a few percentage points of sales. After several weeks, it had performed strongly, but not quite as well as its predecessor. We could never confirm the impact of the leak on its financial performance. But that was not the point from our perspective. Publishers preserve the secrecy of their authors’ works. We were seen once more as naive ingénues, not literary heavyweights.

  There was one final assault coming my way. James Connor, who had never been that impressed since interviewing me and Julian, refused to let go of my alleged complicity in stealing data that wasn’t mine and then lying to a bunch of overzealous politicians. Unfortunately, I kept inadvertently giving him ammunition with which he could destroy my reputation.

  For several weeks, I became aware via our press office that he was sniffing around for intelligence not just on my poor decisions but also my style of leadership, values and seeming total lack of integrity or moral fibre. Every few days, I would receive a call or message from someone within or related to the business, telling me they had been hounded by a persistent journalist with some very specific questions about me. I realised with mounting dread that he was only speaking with people who had some vestige of loyalty. Imagine what someone with a grudge might say, and how unlikely it was that they’d tip me off.

  I did not have to wait too long for the answer. He rang me one Saturday to say he had written an article for the Sunday Times. He outlined its content and asked me if I had a final comment to make. My world was imploding like the universe at the end of Clyde Pilestone’s final novel. Wearily, I conceded to my journalistic nemesis:

  “Our promise has always been ‘Family First’. You have to remember that my aspiration has always been to create something of value to a diverse audience. We want happy parents and children enjoying their interactions with us. We also want happy people working at PrimaParent to deliver this vision. I will let others judge how well I have done.”

  ***

  At midnight, I downloaded the Sunday Times from my app. The headline eviscerated any lingering hope that it would be a favourable account of my well-intentioned efforts:

  DISHONESTY AND INCOMPETENCE DESTROY

  PRIMAPARENT’S UNICORN ASPIRATIONS

  I was the focus of the article and my achievements were dissected with surgical precision. Dimitri was quoted extensively (‘a former high-level tech leader’) and Nigel’s invective given free rein, although denuded of swear words (‘I remember Alex at school. Unpopular. Unimaginative. Unremarkable.’)

  The article was based on very specific details, including being mocked at a company conference, allowing a weak FD to get the numbers wrong until I was made to fire him, and being a walking PR disaster on many occasions. It revealed that after being dismissed by the board, I brought in my ex-partner’s vengeful ex-wife to unethically save myself. Most alarming was the revelation that I had known all about the dubious provenance of much of the data we used for initial growth hacking. When subsequently cornered, I had proved myself very adept at lying – to regulators and politicians, you name it. Pinocchio had nothing on me.

  Julian was not quoted. He didn’t need to be. The detail he had provided for the article was highly specific and completely damning. His vengeance had been delivered through a series of anonymous tip-offs. He must have had a ball.

  The article concluded with my quote about letting the reader decide if our vision had been delivered. James Connor felt the question needed resolution, so he added:

  Evidence would point to ambition clouding Alex Lazarus’s judgement. A warning for those seeking glory at all costs.

  I sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, having told Sarah that I wanted to be alone. She couldn’t have looked more worried as she trudged up the stairs, not ideal for someone who was due to have a baby in ten days. After an eternity of quiet contemplation in the still night, my phone pinged in rapid succession.

  The first message was from my father: You do not deserve this, Alex. You have really achieved something.

  The second one was from Moshe. It simply said: Alex, we need to talk. Immediately.

  For some unfathomable reason, he had even added a smiley face emoticon.

  Epilogue

  Moshe fired me the next day.

  It was a brief meeting. Once again, I ascended to the minimalist white hotel suite. I nodded to his security man, who I knew well, and for a moment considered asking him to intervene on my behalf. Moshe was flanked by his lawyer and, to my horror, the irrepressibly cheerful super-smug Clark Templeton. Moshe did not offer coffee or make any attempt at preamble but stared at me with cold, unblinking eyes, and then gave an expansive sigh that seemed to connote enormous disappointment.

  “Well, habibi, we have come to the end of your bumpy ride.” I knew I had walked into my own execution, so I decided that petulant silence was the required mature tactic. He couldn’t have cared less and seemed keen to get through the conversation quickly so he could get on with some proper work.

  “Alex, you have lost the backing of not just the board but of most of the company. It has been one mistake after another, and you are driving us backwards. You should actually thank Clark for his intervention.”

  “What intervention?” Silence was no longer an option and I angrily clenched my fists, which I suspect just made me look silly.

  “Clark has done a lot of damage limitation with Kate to protect our future commercial relationship with Clyde Pilestone.”

  “Has he now?” Silly phrases were unfortunately flying out of my mouth. A measured response was beyond me.

  “We may be able to preserve the relationship, but your school friend Nigel will only allow it if you are nowhere near the business. He couldn’t have been clearer.”

  Clark now felt the unsolicited need to make an impressively irritating contribution. “He can be quite hurtful and personal, can’t he? And sometimes it’s hard to follow his language, which seems a bit old-fashioned.”

  By now I was straining to preserve any vestige of dignity, wanting to cry, scream and stamp my little feet. I had to refrain from responding; having entered the room calmly, I intended to exit the same way. Instead, I turned to the lawyer, an unfamiliar American who had sat impassively throughout.

  “So, tell me, what is Moshe proposing?” It was time to retreat to the safety of my own lawyer to scrutinise any offer made. Everyone seemed relieved I wasn’t frothing at the mouth, and she pulled a manila envelope from her bag and almost tossed it dismissively in my direction.

  “The good news about our proposal is you keep your shares unchallenged, but the even better news is we have made a proposal to buy them from you. It is time-sensitive, however. Moshe is being very generous. You have forty-eight hours from today to decide.”

  At that point, Moshe’s phone rang, and he got up to take the call, dismissing me with a casual wave of farewell as he moved on to an Alex-free future. The injustice of being ousted by the person meant to support me felt very cruel. Indeed, if I had any doubt about his swaggering indifference, he emphasised the point by inviting my successor to witness my dismissal.

  I got up, fully intending to leave in cold silence. Unfortunately, Clark extended his hand towards me with a condescending suggestion of ‘no hard feelings’. My feelings were actually hardening by the second, so I let him hold his hand out for several seconds, shook my head and walked away. Sadly, my graceful exit was ruined by tripping over the corner of a coffee table and stumbling a few steps with flailing arms, before correcting myself and trying to pretend it had not happened. As I closed the door behind me, Clark was smirking. If only there had been a baseball bat handy.

  ***

  Two days later, Sarah went into labour. She had been late with the other two and this time was a week early. It wasn’t that we were unprepared, rather that I had hoped to make the biggest decision of my life undistracted. Instead, I found myself in hospital with a poor signal, trying to send emails between contractions. Moshe had offered to buy me out for ha
lf the value of my shares. We had spent a lot of time having the company valued when considering the IPO, and while we hadn’t quite made it to unicorn status (unless it was a two-legged wingless unicorn), we were doing pretty well when you consider we had only been going five years.

  His offer letter was short and very clear. Moshe wanted to do the deal immediately but argued that my recent wayward performance at the helm had devalued the company significantly. Therefore, he was prepared to offer me an amount equating to half of the most recent valuation (actually 48.945 per cent), a robust sum of cash sitting in an offshore bank somewhere, waiting to be transferred into my account. I had two days to decide, as a protracted negotiation could impact further on the fortunes of the business.

  I should say that we are talking an enormous life-changing dollop of cash, an amount equivalent to a hefty lottery win. A sum so unfathomably large that a life of sports-car driving, exotic holidaying and general indolence beckoned. Work would be a distant memory and my children would want for nothing, hideously overindulged in the process. It may be difficult, therefore, to feel sympathy for my self-indulgence at this juncture. All that personal wealth, simply by selling my shares on the cheap.

  PrimaParent was going to make me very rich indeed, but it was accompanied by a strong need for recognition and affirmation. I had created something globally significant from a casual conversation. Why wasn’t lots of money in my bank account enough?

  As a child, I had been in awe of my grandfather’s anecdotes about his commercial wiliness, triumphing over any puny adversary he encountered. Despite many accolades, I suffered from a sense of inadequacy that I was just the bloke who founded the company, not the genius behind its success. A chance encounter delivered us Clyde Pilestone, Julian’s commercial flair secured its commercial benefits, Moshe’s ruthless control kept us on track, and the exciting subsequent innovation stemmed from Clark. Alex Lazarus? Nice chap. Full of ideas, but all over the shop in reality.

  My pride and self-esteem were deflated by an offer suggesting I was only half the business genius I thought I was. It didn’t help that my advisors kept telling me forcefully it was a ploy I had to ignore. Moshe wanted to do a quick deal because he had some plan that my continued presence could only undermine. I was now a blockage that needed to be cleared.

  I found myself in a negotiation, unable to get past the grief and wounded ego and totally alone as Sarah was not really in the mood to chat. As the emails from my lawyers cluttered my inbox, all suggesting delaying tactics to up the value of the offer, I couldn’t stop thinking that something I loved was dying, just as a new precious family member was about to be born.

  I’m sure Moshe did not think so poetically. Maybe I was too sensitive for my own good, or just very tired. I had no doubt that it was a trap and was sufficiently self-aware to know I would find it hard to separate myself emotionally from the business if I left. I’d need for it to flounder without me.

  Sarah’s labour started slowly, and I sat next to her or walked around the hospital holding her hand, spewing out half-hearted phrases of encouragement as I tried to bring order to my fragmented thoughts. (You’ve got this, Sarah. Remember to breathe, Sarah. Fancy a KitKat, Sarah?) As the day wore on and her pain increased, something told me there was only one way forward. When we moved to the pushing-the-baby-out bit at the end, I grew certain of the right decision.

  At 11.53 p.m. on a Tuesday night, my son Max was born. He filled his lungs with air and bawled with angry gusto, maybe in disappointment at meeting me. There were seven minutes left until Moshe’s deadline passed. The midwife congratulated me, and I thanked Sarah for just being perfect.

  In an office in the West End, a group of lawyers were sitting in a conference room surrounded by the sad leftover cartons of a Chinese takeaway, drinking cold coffee and impatiently awaiting my call. Holding Sarah’s hand and staring at my son, I somehow managed to dial in to them, and in a voice that had never felt more certain, I quietly said:

  “Please call Moshe and sell my shares.”

  ***

  The lawyers drafted the paperwork over the next few days and I made one non-negotiable stipulation. Moshe had to offer to buy Alice’s shares too. I had spoken to her throughout the process and she had been her normal steadfast, robustly honest self when I told her I’d been fired.

  “Duh. Do you think they didn’t phone me to tell me it was going to happen? I am a shareholder, you know, and CEOs are always getting fired in this place. I think it unlikely you’re going to get reinstated this time.”

  “I think that’s a realistic assumption. What did you tell them?”

  “I said I would have to consider my position too. You know how it goes. I can’t work, if working is without you.”

  “Oh, don’t be mad. You don’t need to do anything rash on my behalf. You’ve worked too hard for the business to leave in a huff. You’ll be better off without me to annoy you.”

  “That’s very sweet, but I think that if I have to report in to Clark, I may end up murdering him to avoid listening to any more clichés. Do you know, he actually said to me last week: ‘Remember Alice, it is always darkest under the lighthouse.’”

  “Think carefully. That’s all I ask.”

  “Alex, you have to get me out, there’s no debate. I trust you completely. How sad is that?”

  As it happens, it proved very simple to get her bought out and she became instantaneously a very wealthy woman who, like me, could choose a different way to live. Moshe wanted as much control as he could get, so it evidently suited him to acquiesce. And a lawyer-filled week or so later, we were both no longer shareholders in the business we had created.

  The confirmatory call came through to me at a moment of family celebration. It was actually my son’s ‘brit milah’, his circumcision, when the sale money was transferred. Thousands of years ago, Abraham made a covenant with God. Circumcising Isaac, his son, and ensuring the continuity of this command, conferred on him the promise of land and greatness. Loyalty and devotion, faith and duty could bring great rewards. How fitting that this archaic tradition was performed the same day I relinquished control of a professional life devoted to parenting.

  The ceremony is mercifully quick and afterwards Max slept soundly, grumbling occasionally at the indignity of his recent surgery. I felt tired, sad and drained. It was over now, and I had to work out what to do next. My emotions were more volatile than usual, and I was quite tearful. We had family and a few friends over to celebrate and I slumped morosely on the sofa. My father sat next to me and handed me a cup of strong coffee. After a minute or two, he turned to me and smiled.

  “Well, you are now, I believe, what they call in capitalist circles a multi-millionaire. More money in your account than the GDP of most of Latin America. No need to work. All that time to spend with us. How does it feel?”

  I turned my head to him and smiled weakly. “I enjoyed the bit where I trampled over the poor people. That felt nice.”

  “You’ll be buying your old Ma and Pa a nice seaside place somewhere, surely. You know how fond we are of the French Riviera.”

  “For sure. I’m looking at caravan parks as we speak. I’ll even get you one with running water.”

  “And I have every intention of turning you into a case history I can teach undergraduates. I think I’ll call it ‘The pitfalls of chasing the digital dollar’.”

  “I might enrol myself. Have you got anything nice to say, Dad?”

  He put his arm around my shoulders and drew me towards him, giving me a kiss on the top of my head in the process.

  “Oh yes, for sure, Alex. Zayde would be so proud of you. So proud. Spend it wisely, son.”

  ***

  A couple of days later, Clark was announced in the role of CEO of PrimaParent. The press release thanked me for my incredible contribution as founder and looked to a bright future under Clark’s stewardship. His achievements were effusively spelt out and the elevation was accompanied by some other news. In addition t
o continued exclusive rights to the ‘Resilient Martian’ series, Nigel O’Connor had agreed to let PrimaParent publish his next series of novels. (‘Sabre of Truth’ – the tale of Caleb Clyne, an eighteenth-century revolutionary swordsman available to the highest bidder.) There had clearly been many conversations with Nigel and Kate from which I had been excluded.

  PrimaParent Holidays was also launched. There wasn’t much ground left to cover for helping improve the quality of family life, but I didn’t expect this to be part of the release. A few weeks previously, when I was still CEO, we were working on the business model for roll-out the following year. There is no way it could have been ready. Rather, Moshe was controlling the narrative to beef up the performance of the business. Now that he had hoovered up my shares on the cheap, it was time to raise the stated value of Prima-Parent to the outside world.

  Even more miraculously, the Information Commissioner resolved their outstanding investigation with a £100,000 toothless fine. Much of their conclusion was focused on the ‘board’s excision of previous management responsible for unchecked and inappropriate behaviour’. I was a convenient scapegoat, it seemed. I could never prove it, but somehow Moshe’s data-security network was a useful ally to them and it would not have surprised me if somehow Avi Ram had been instructed by his boss to support the information police across the world in return for them turning a blind eye.

  I did get many calls from people sad to see me go and the messages were kind and emotional. I had lots of loyal friends in the business, but there was little evidence that they thought my departure would bring the company crashing down around them. Liked and respected maybe, but ultimately totally replaceable.

  I spent the next few months getting on with my domestic life in as low-key a fashion as possible. My body ached with corporate weariness. Everyone advised me to decompress and free my mind from considering my future. I did decide to try to trim my flabby tummy and look after myself better. Five years from launch and my man boobs were so big, you’d think it was me breastfeeding baby Max.