Learning Curve (8 page)

S
oon they were on the M40, heading up the grade through the white chalk cuts towards High Wycombe. Dan and Hastings were in the rear seat of the Jag Vanden Plas, and Lisa and Ramesh were in the front. So far the interview had gone well by Dan's lights, not least because Lisa had both her iPad on her lap and her notes on the seat beside her. She had chimed in with facts and figures to support any potentially controversial points Dan made—even handing back copies of the relevant article or report when Hastings proved skeptical.

So far, so good. But now the interview was taking a darker turn. Dan had known this was coming; he'd been through enough interviews to know the reporter's trick of starting friendly and easy, then coming through with the hardball stuff after you were softened up.

Now Hastings made the inevitable shift. “I'm curious—frankly, the entire business is curious—why you and Cosmo Validator would take such an extreme measure as letting go of your entire sales
force to focus on a wholly new and unproven sales model.” Hastings had dandruff on his shoulder and he stank of old cigarette smoke, but he was no fool; nobody got to his position without knowing his business. “Would you explain why you reached that decision?”

Dan had been asked this question a hundred times in the last few weeks, by employees and reporters, and by his own heart. He glanced back at Lisa, who was already digging out the McKinsey report that predicted a major shift to a web service sales model, even for complex and high-ticket product lines like Validator's. Then he embarked on his well-polished answer.

“Well, Arthur,” he said, “one of the biggest errors a company can make is to stick too long to a practice that has worked for them in the past, and may even be working for them now, but is about to become obsolete. It's what Geoffrey Moore writes about: we're not just crossing the chasm, we're leaping over it… and we intend to be racing off on the far side before our competitors even realize they've been left behind.”

Dan had said this so many times, he almost believed it. But this time it suddenly seemed fraudulent. Perhaps Hastings noticed this too, because he didn't write any notes.

“Yes,” said Arthur. “You've been saying that for the last couple months. But I think that raises as many questions as it answers.”

Dan felt his stomach drop. “How so?”

“Well,” said the reporter, pulling on his droopy cheeks, “for example, what evidence do you have that this new model is the right one—or that it will even work? And, even assuming it
will
work, why would a company the size of Validator all but circumvent the transition process? Isn't it irresponsible to your shareholders to burn your bridges like this, leaving no escape path if it doesn't work? And what do you say to the claim made by some observers that this is nothing more than an overwrought response to eTernity going public?”

Dan froze, not from the fusillade of questions but because they so perfectly restated what he'd been asking himself.

Hasting took Crowen's silence for confusion. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Would you like to address these questions one at a time?”

Before Dan could answer, Lisa turned halfway around in her seat, her knees tucked up onto the center console. “I think Dan was just waiting for me to answer your questions with actual data, Arthur. On the first question, as both Mr. Crowen and Mr. Validator have said on several occasions, we believe that time will prove us correct, and that eventually the world will see that we made the right decision. As for burning our bridges—hardly. I'd be happy to show you documentation that more than sixty percent of our sales staff has now been re-hired as contractors… and we can restore them as full-time employees at a moment's notice. As for eTernity, not only are the actions of a company one-fifth the size of Validator not something we worry about much, but I think if you'll check your own morgue, our announcement was made days before eTernity's IPO was filed.”

“Okay,” said Arthur Hastings, looking chastened.

“And finally,” Lisa went on, “I have a report—which I negligently left on the plane—that I know Mr. Crowen wanted me to give to you. It shows, cost-benefits wise, that moving to a net app sales model is not a risky financial move, but is in fact the most conservative possible strategy. The entire report is proprietary, of course, but I'd be happy to share the executive summary with you. Would you like that?”

Arthur nodded, then turned. “Yes, of course, if that's all right with you, Mr. Crowen.”

Dan smiled, “Of course. I'm not here to sell you, Arthur. My goal is to provide you with enough information for you to help your readers reach an informed conclusion about Validator Software and its future.” He smiled towards Lisa. “Ms. Holmes, when do you think you can have that executive summary for Mr. Hastings?”

“Noon tomorrow at the latest,” said Lisa. “You know all of the time zone problems between here and California.”

“Will that be acceptable to you, Arthur? Or are you on a tighter deadline?”

“No, no,” said Hastings. “That will be more than acceptable.”

“Good.” Dan gave Hastings his best benevolent executive smile. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Arthur?” he asked. “Because we're almost there—I can see the ‘dreaming spires' up there just ahead—and I don't want you to feel like I haven't answered every one of your questions.”

Hastings smiled back. “Yes, that's about it. Just a few housekeeping questions. And we can do those via email if necessary. I don't want to keep you from your next appointment.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Arthur. It's always a relief to talk with a real professional.”

F
ive hours later, Dan and Lisa were sitting in the Morse bar at the Randolph Hotel. The rest of the day hadn't gone any better. The staff at Validator's UK office in Oxford—sixty people, down from eighty-two just two weeks before—had appeared at first to be more receptive to the plan than their fellow employees in Grenoble and Versailles… but Dan soon realized that what he was seeing was merely the classic passive-aggressive British genius for appearing to agree with you even as they made you feel like a jumped-up incompetent turd from the Colonies.

By the end of the Q&A session, every member of the audience had his or her legs crossed and torsos half turned from Dan, who nevertheless tried to look collegial by sitting on the edge of a table with his sleeves rolled up. The final question, asked by an advertising manager in a chalk-striped vested suit—“Will our employee options ever resurface from their current submergence?”—so dripped with disdain that the young man might well as have just spit across the intervening distance.

This pleasant interlude was capped by dinner in the employee lunch room with the UK director, who obviously wanted to show his contempt for Crowen because he'd had to fire twenty-two sales people he'd personally hired when he was UK sales manager. On Dan's last visit six months before, they'd had dinner at Oxford's trendy Living Room restaurant, where they were joined by the Master of Christchurch College. Now the three of them sat in plastic chairs at a plastic table, and ate a ghastly steak-and-kidney pie washed down with some sour plonk. The director had an explanation for this rebuke, saying he had to deal with some “personnel problems.” This, of course, was a less-than-subtle rebuke in itself.

The bartender brought them two brandies, and Dan and Lisa clicked glasses. “To a merry day in Merry Old England,” Dan trenchantly toasted, then took a long slug. “Only Old Blighty can make me feel this bad.”

Lisa slumped back into her upholstered chair. “Sweden tomorrow. Stockholm.”

Dan shook his head. “Can't be any worse than today. At last I won't have to try to be witty.”

“I thought you did just fine, considering,” said Lisa, taking a drink and pursing her lips. “After all, they just saw one fourth of their staff disappear. You were never going to do better than a draw with these folks, and I think you got at least that. Once the stock comes back up, they'll forgive you, just like everyone else in the company.”

“
If
the stock comes back up. The economy's already looking shaky. And let's not forget what's going to happen any day now: the eTernity IPO.”

“Better sooner than later,” said Lisa. “Get it over with.”

“What do you think of those guys? Ever dealt with Alison Prue?”

“I only know what I read,” Lisa
replied. “Every new company looks great, because they're all about potential, not reality. ETernity's got good products, an okay business model, and a lot of talented young people… but it's a long way from there to being a proven success.”

“Tell that to the stock market.”

“I don't have to. The analysts are already doing that. But I'm not sure anyone is listening right now. Certainly not the small investors. They never do.”

“How well do you think they'll do going out?”

“From what I hear, they'll do very well: $27, maybe $28 per share at opening. Probably settle there too, at the end of the day.”

Dan whistled softly. “And us? What's the damage?”

“Down $2, maybe $4 by the end of the day. Then we'll get most of it back in the days that follow—once the reality of the challenge that eTernity faces, and Validator's built-in advantages, start to sink in.”

“I guess I can live with that.” Dan downed the rest of the brandy and ordered another. “Hey, I almost forgot. What was that report you were talking about in the car today with the FT guy? It saved my ass. How come I've never heard of it? It sounds like it could be really useful.”

“It doesn't exist,” said Lisa with a tiny smile. “I made it up on the spot. I'll write it on the plane in the morning.”

“Jesus,” said Dan, shaking his head. “You're good. That's about the third time you've saved me on this trip alone.”

Lisa, finished her drink. “That's why I'm here,” she said. “Cosmo thought you might need me.”

“Cosmo was right.”

“He usually is,” said Lisa, signaling for another drink.

F
eeling no pain, Dan slowly made his way up the grand staircase of the Randolph Hotel, passed the Gothic revival stained glass windows, and eventually reached the second floor. Using his right hand to balance himself along the wall, he shuffled down the narrow hallway to his room, the Edwardian floorboards under the carpet squeaking with the weight of each step. He fumbled with the magnetic card for a while, but finally gained entry.

The bed was turned down, with a chocolate carefully placed on each pillow. Music was playing on the stereo. Most impressive of all, the curtains were open, revealing the vast, yellow floodlit Georgian face of the Ashmolean Museum across the street. The sheer romance of the scene was almost unbearable to Dan in his current state.
And here I am,
he thought woozily but with perfect clarity,
a lone businessman on the road. What a waste.

He pulled off his suit jacket, then sat heavily on the bed, stripped off his tie and kicked off his shoes. He rubbed his face with his hands. Looking up, he saw that the screensaver on his laptop was glowing. With a groan he moved to the desk, sat before the device, and tapped the space key. The screen opened up to a list of new email. The clock widget in the corner of the screen said it was 3:00 p.m. in Silicon Valley. He never should have looked; now he'd have to answer the most important messages.

It took nearly an hour. Thank goodness he had empowered Donna to read his email, strip out all the spam, and send the non-critical messages to the right people. But that still left a score or more desperate emails waiting for Dan by the end of each day on the road. There were requests for interviews and speeches, introductions by friends to other people who wanted something, messages from the various companies and foundations for which he served as a board member, and personal notes from friends and family.

Growing sleepier by the minute, Dan tackled the business messages first. He answered most of them with no more than a sentence, deferring longer contact until he got home. He erased all the links to coverage by him in the media—Lisa got those too, and showed him all the important ones. He begged off most of the parties and gatherings, replying by cutting and pasting the same polite but pointed paragraph.

Finally, with his chin almost resting on his chest, Dan opened three emails he'd saved for last. All were from his wife. The first was tagged “Aidan.” The other two were both empty, and tagged “Did you get my message?” and “Are you there?”

Too tired to feel any anxiety over the subject lines, Dan yawned and punched the key to open the first email:

Dan:

 

I hope you're doing okay. You sounded worn out when we talked yesterday. I know how difficult this has been for you. Having to sell a plan you don't believe in has got to be hard—and having to pretend you do believe in it must be doubly awful.

 

You've got that right, honey,
Dan thought to himself.

 

So I really hate to bring this up, but I'm very concerned about Aidan. You've been so busy, I'm sure you haven't noticed, but I can't help thinking there's something wrong with her. Her grades have slumped—I checked with the school's grade site, and she's got an “F” in two classes right now.

 

As you know, she's hardly ever even gotten a C in all of her school years. And that's only part of it. I got one of those automated calls today saying that Aidan had an unexcused absence from her Geometry class. I called the office and told them she'd had a doctor's appointment—but I was lying. And when I hit her up about it last night, she told me her period had started and she was in the bathroom and late for class and didn't want to get hassled by her teacher, so she didn't go.

 

I knew she was lying. She cut class. And tonight she was talking a mile a minute, then she turned moody and emotional. I'm sure she did more than just cut school.

Oh, Dan, I'm so worried about her. And I feel so helpless. If I accuse her and I'm wrong, she'll never forgive me. But if I'm right, it could be even worse not to do something.

 

I know how busy you are, honey, but I could sure use your help on this. Is there any way you can come home earlier than you'd planned? And if not, can you call and talk to Aidan? I need to hear your opinion after you've had a chance to talk to her.

“No, I
can't
come home early,” Dan said bitterly to the screen. “Do you have any idea what I'm dealing with?” I've got 32,000 lives, he thought—32,000
families
—depending on me to get the company through this clusterfuck. They trust me. They depend on me. And I have to pretend like I know what I'm doing… and I
don't.
And all you've got on your plate are the problems of one single teenage girl—which probably aren't real anyway. Aidan's always been a good girl—and you're telling me you can't handle it?

He rubbed his face again.
Jesus, Annabelle, do I have to do everything? I thought we were in this together.
He believed himself misjudged and abandoned—and that was a satisfying feeling.

But neither the booze nor the anger was enough to cover Dan's gnawing sense that he was wrong. That it was always a mistake to question his wife's judgment. And worst of all, that he was being a poor husband and father.

He started to type a reply, but realized he didn't know what to say, and couldn't even formulate a proper sentence. He closed the laptop and dragged himself to bed.