When we arrived at the ER, they looked him over and their assessment was devastating. They said he’d suffered an aneurysm and that the hemorrhage on the brain was so big that they couldn’t do anything about it. They said flatly that he wouldn’t last very long and that I should simply sit with him and talk with him. They said he probably wouldn’t be able to respond but that he’d be able to hear me all the same.
I was in shock, of course. I couldn’t believe this was happening, and I was utterly torn apart. He was my dad, and I loved him, but he was also my mentor and my business partner. He was the one solid rock I’d ever known in my life, and now he was leaving me behind. I held him and tried to say good-bye, and he was so strong that it took him eighteen hours to die. I don’t think I stopped crying once the whole time. All the while my mother was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, not crying, not touching him, not responding in any way. I have no idea what she was or was not feeling. All I know for certain is that she kept her Botox appointment later that week.
Hannah Colman, who had started working for us on the shop floor on Motcomb Street when she was only seventeen and was now head of all European sales, came around to help us call people and make the arrangements. Robert, overflowing with humanity, rang up and said, “What are you doing over there?”
She said, “They need my help.”
He said, “We need you in the office. You need to get back here.”
She wasn’t even scheduled to be working—she was supposed to be on holiday.
We held the funeral in a church in Knightsbridge, on a bright, sunny day. I was the only one who spoke. My mother was too stunned, and my brothers deferred to me. After the service, we went back to my mother’s apartment in Eaton Place for a tea with a small group of friends.
This was the end of an era. My father had been such a force in my life—my primary emotional attachment, as well as my partner and guide in business. His passing left a power vacuum like the death of an ancient king. From now on I was going to have to fend for myself, without his protection or advice, and it remained to be seen if I was up for the challenge.
• • • •
MY PARENTS HAD BEEN PLANNING to move back to California, so after Dad’s death my mother flew out to L.A., checked into the Peninsula, and began looking for a house in Beverly Hills. My brothers went with her, and my work took me out there often enough, so I would check in on her from time to time.
Minty and the nanny traveled with me, and while in L.A. we stayed at the Peninsula as well, and I tried very hard to set aside my anger toward my mother and help her get through this difficult transition. Matthew was gone, and I wanted Minty to have a grandmother, and I thought that maybe in the midst of our grief or some such we could all bond as a family. I was a grown-up now, and no matter how much she’d hurt me as a child, I knew that I should at least try to forgive her, if only for Minty’s sake. For a couple of weeks I even left Minty and her nanny at the Peninsula with my mother. For reasons I’ve never understood, my mother soon fired the young woman, who wrote to me to complain. She said all my mother did was take Minty to coffee shops with my brothers and sit around and, as she described it, bad-mouth me in front of my little girl.
Apparently, my efforts at reconciliation faced an uphill battle. It hurts to have anyone belittle you and speak against you. But when it’s your own mother . . . I may have been an adult, but the pain and the anger were still very real. Mothers just aren’t supposed to hate their children.
Meanwhile, I was the one working, continuing to build the engine of wealth that my mother and brothers were living on.
The business that kept me coming to L.A. that season was something I’d set in motion months before with the Elton John AIDS Foundation, a project aimed at raising money to build rape shelters across South Africa.
I’d met Elton and his husband, David Furnish, at the event they do in Windsor every year to raise money for the foundation. Theirs is one of the most highly regarded charities because it’s very efficiently run, with the money going to help, not to pay inflated administrative costs. I went up to David and I told him about this horrific article I’d read in the Times about a three-year-old girl who had been raped in Africa. This kind of thing happens all the time because the men there believe they can rid themselves of AIDS by sleeping with virgins.
I said, “If I raise money, can we put it through your charity? Can we set it apart for rape shelters?”
He said, “Absolutely.”
I didn’t want to do a predictable fund-raiser, just another black-tie dinner. So I rang up Pilar Boxford, the head of all regional brands at Cartier, and I proposed that they go in with us on a book of photographs of women, by women, for women. But we had to make it fun, and we had to offer a chance to be creative, because the people you want associated with your project get a lot of requests from charities.
Then it occurred to us: With jewelry and shoes sponsoring, why have anything else in the pictures? Why give press to brands that weren’t contributing? So let’s have everyone pose in the nude.
Each celebrity model would be wearing nothing but her Cartier jewelry and her Jimmy Choos. The creative part was that she could be as covered or as uncovered as she cared to be. She could stand behind a door with her foot and her hand sticking out with a ring on it, or she could be in bed with a sheet covering everything but her hand and her foot, or she could be stark naked—it was entirely up to her.
The whole affair turned out to be an enormous administrative chore, so eventually I asked Arabella Bodie to manage the project, riding herd on our celebrities, arranging schedules for photographers like Mary McCartney, Pamela Hanson, Sam Taylor-Wood, and Ellen von Unwerth, and organizing hair and makeup.
• • • •
MEANWHILE, I WAS FLYING BACK and forth between L.A. and London, continuing to attend secretive pitch meetings for Project Jewel as Akeel tried to drum up interest from among his select group of potential buyers. We would do presentations at Rothschild’s conference room with lots of bullet points and pie charts, and with Robert, the CFO, and me all trying to create the illusion of one big happy family—just like during my childhood. Robert would speak to the financial issues, and I would speak to the creative, which didn’t interest them all that much, though they did like hearing about the celebrities.
My father’s death had added new impetus to the idea of a sale because his equity needed to be sorted out for the benefit of my mother. So all during this period I sent her faxes to keep her abreast of the situation and to explain her options. If she were allowed to leave money in, it would very likely increase in value. On the other hand, continued investment most likely would not be an option because new owners usually want nonactive partners to cash out, just to simplify decision making. This seemed to be a nonissue as far as my mother was concerned because she made it quite clear that she wanted to receive her ownership stake entirely in cash that could be reinvested to generate monthly income.
On October 31, 2004, the Mail on Sunday blew the cover on Project Jewel by announcing we were for sale. They got it wrong, of course, saying that Burberry was the leading contender, which was all a bit awkward, given that Akeel had just introduced us to Lyndon Lea, a thirty-four-year-old financial whiz known as the “boy banker.” The head of European operations for Hicks, Muse, Tate & Furst, a private-equity firm based in Texas, he was in the process of leaving to set up his own firm, to be called Lion Capital.
Lyndon was very charming and obviously a driven, self-made man. His mother had been a hairdresser, and now he was a devoted polo player with a private jet. When we had our first conference with him at Rothschild, I liked what he had to say because he seemed to have a strategic vision for the brand. He seemed to be interested in more than the typical private-equity game plan of leveraging, pumping up the EBITDA for three years, and then getting out. Then again, I was still new to this game.
We
continued our discussion over dinner at Harry’s Bar, and during the cocktail chatter I actually heard Robert say that when he came into the business “it was like being given the keys to a Ferrari.” This was the one time he ever acknowledged—at least in my hearing—the value of what my father and I had created.
Ultimately we had three offers. Lambert Howarth, a huge shoe company that supplied Marks and Spencer, wanted to do a reverse takeover, meaning that they would buy a controlling interest, rename the entire entity Jimmy Choo, then take it public. Soros Private Equity Partners also made a proposal, but one that left them with wiggle room for an extended period of due diligence. Given his head start, Lyndon was able to make us an offer within a week, with no contingencies.
It was in November 2004 when the owners of Jimmy Choo sat down in the conference room at Ixworth Place to decide which offer to take. Representing Phoenix were David Burns and Robert. On the family’s side were myself; my mother; Nick Morgan, who managed the trusts in Jersey; the accountant for the trusts, Raj Patel; and Timothy Gere, who managed the trusts’ investments.
Lambert Howarth’s valuation was £125 million, but part of their offer was in stock rather than cash. Lyndon’s offer for Lion Capital was based on a value of £101 million, all cash. We decided to go with Lion, which was a very good thing because Lambert Howarth soon went into bankruptcy.
As anticipated, Lion didn’t want any extraneous shareholders hanging around to complicate decision making, but again, my mother was happy to cash out, taking her relatively illiquid private-equity shares and reinvesting elsewhere.
I was doubly delighted. Not only would this deal rid me of Robert, it would rid me of my mother. For all my efforts to please her, take care of her, and reconcile with her, I was coming to the conclusion that the best I could hope for was to remove myself from her in order to protect myself.
But just as my mother needed investments that were more liquid, I, too, needed to generate a monthly income to live on. So I cashed out roughly half of my half of the family’s share. The rest I reinvested in Jimmy Choo, in return for which I received 64,000 shares of stock in this entity that I would partly own in partnership with Lyndon’s Lion Capital.
At last my dream of financial independence was being realized. But no sooner had we given Lion the good news than it seemed as if the gods wanted to have a laugh at my expense.
Concerned about continuity in management, Lyndon announced that he wanted Robert to stay on. In fact, he insisted that both Robert and I be contractually locked in. He actually went so far as to demand assurances that my nemesis and I would be able to continue working together “harmoniously.”
If my father had been alive, I’m sure we would have resisted. Robert was an employee, an obstructive, pain-in-the-ass employee who could be replaced. But I still hadn’t found my voice. I was still complying with the unreasonable in order to evade and avoid.
I also felt trapped. I needed this deal to go through because it’s only during these exit transactions that a partner in a private-equity deal can cash out, and I was counting on realizing the capital I needed to live on. If I resigned the deal would most likely collapse—I was actually part of what was being purchased, creativity as a form of chattel. Beyond that fact, and while I had a huge emotional investment in the brand, Jimmy Choo was by far the best financial investment I could make. I would be leaving in a large stake, so to ensure the increase in the value of that investment, I had to stay on and be on top of my game, in order to keep the brand creative and fresh. Under those circumstances, continuing to work with Robert was a bitter pill I was simply going to have to swallow.
Before he died, my dad told me, “We’ll probably sell this company for £100 million, and it will be right around November.” On November 14, a memo went around listing a price of £101 million. I only wish my dad could have been there to relish the moment and to receive this one last confirmation of his business acumen. But tribute enough—after transaction fees and what little debt we had, the Yeardye family’s share was a return on his initial investment of three hundredfold.
The legalities remained to be worked out, and after the announcement, Robert came to me and said, “I think we should use the same lawyers, Travers Smith. We can save on costs.”
I had used Andrew Roberts in the past, and he had been at Travers, so this seemed to make sense.
I said, “Sure.” Another rookie mistake.
What hadn’t occurred to me was the extent to which I was swimming with sharks and that I needed personal representation. Once again, Robert was only one shark among many. The one who would give me the most grief was the one I’d had to deal with all my life. As I would soon learn, despite my fond hopes of distancing myself, my mother still had her teeth embedded in my flesh.
The allocation of shares between our two trusts would become a morass of confusion, at least in her mind, which would lead to a legal battle that would consume years of my life and millions of dollars, and bring me to the edge of despair.
• • • •8• • • •
The signing of the Lion deal was scheduled for November 18, 2004, and we had a conference call line open twenty-four hours a day to iron out last-minute complexities. Among these pesky details was the requirement that the agreement be approved and signed before magistrates on the island of Jersey, where the family trusts had been set up. Our operations centers were in the UK and the United States, but Jimmy Choo Jersey Limited, in Jersey, actually owned the brand and licensed it to Jimmy Choo Limited. JCL ran operations, and JCJ received royalties. There were no taxes on the income received by JCJ in Jersey so long as it was not repatriated to the UK.
Jersey, officially known as the Bailiwick of Jersey, is a strange little place that might have been dreamed up for a Monty Python routine, somewhere between Spamalot and the “Ministry of Silly Walks.” Lying only twelve miles off the coast of France, it is a British Crown dependency. In Viking times it had been kicked back and forth between the dukes of Normandy and the dukes of Brittany, but it’s been more or less English since William and all that in 1066. It’s famous for its cows, but its real economy is devoted to financial services, making it rather like the Caymans, only with foul weather.
To accommodate the signing requirements, David Burns and Robert booked seats on the forty-five-minute flight to Saint Helier, Jersey’s capital, and they were on their way to Gatwick when Akeel called to discuss how Lyndon was going to be financing the acquisition—which was by taking on massive debt.
Robert was livid that, by being acquired, we were putting the company £50 million in the hole. (I, on the other hand, wasn’t even informed of this development.)
To calm the waters, Lyndon called Robert and asked him to come to their offices on Grosvenor Place, just opposite Buckingham Palace, where he explained how the debt was being structured in a way that would allow Robert to leverage his own equity stake. Our CEO was reassured, but by now they’d missed the last flight to Jersey.
Lyndon graciously offered his own NetJet, and when they landed, they went straight to the lawyer’s office in Saint Helier, and the signing dragged on and on. At quarter past eight the pilot called to remind them that Jersey’s airport closed at nine, but there was still plenty of fine print to read, and it wasn’t until ten that the deal was done.
I’d spent the evening waiting by the phone at my lawyer’s office, and after the call came through I took a deep breath and went over to my mother’s house to “share the good news.” I found her sitting by herself in her living room, her knees pulled up to her chest, rocking back and forth. I knelt down and said, “Mom, they’ve signed it. Everything’s done. You’re going to have plenty of money. You’re going to be okay.”
I think this may have been the one instance when I found it possible to set aside her lifelong cruelty to me and feel real compassion for her. At the same time, I still felt like a wounded child, not only angry but still hoping again
st hope for a crumb of recognition. I would have given the world for a single word of kindness from her, a simple, “Well done.” But she simply kept rocking and staring off into space. It was frightening and very sad. And as usual, there was nothing for me.
Back in Jersey, the Jimmy Choo financial team was forced to stay over, neither having packed so much as a toothbrush. They flew out again at six in the morning, but no one thought to send a car to Luton Airport north of London, and these high-rolling gentlemen enjoyed the novelty of taking the commuter rail back into town.
When I received my copies of all the final documents, I reviewed all the details, including the distribution of “sweet equity,” the small number of shares set aside as an added incentive for management. According to a preexisting agreement, Robert and I were to have parity on all remuneration. And yet I noticed right away that Robert had received 5 percent and that I had received only 3 percent sweet equity.
So at the first board meeting I spoke up. “This isn’t right,” I said. “Our agreement was to have parity on this.”
Lyndon acknowledged my point, and he told Robert to put the extra 2 percent back into the pot so that it could be distributed on exit.
This was a directive from the chairman of the board, stipulated at a board meeting and entered into the minutes, so I went on about my business, feeling certain that the error would be corrected.
My lawyer, Andrew Roberts, called and said, “Do you want me to follow up?”
I said, “No. I trust Lyndon on this. Besides, it’s in the minutes of a board meeting.”
Another rookie mistake. I should never have been so naive.
Over the next two years, Lyndon came to perhaps two board meetings, and when he did, none of his earlier talk of strategic vision could be found. As usual, EBITDA was all that mattered. Lyndon sent over his bean counter, Robert Darwent, to count all the beans, and as long as the numbers were looking good, that was that.
In My Shoes: A Memoir Page 13