Chapter 3 Michael
Michael
Two weeks later
What I thought was the exception is now the rule: I’m woken by the phone and the unamused voice of my assistant, Penny: “You’re late. Again.”
I leap out of bed, scolding myself for having slept through my alarm. Or should I say, my alarms—all four of them.
The triple espresso I down has no effect, so, before going out, I quickly pop a fourth capsule of the ultra-strong and hyper-concentrated blend into the Nespresso machine while I button my shirt.
No time for a shave or a tie today; there are six messages on my phone from Saxton, the last of which is a terse We’re waiting for you.
The taxi ride from Grosvenor Square to Marylebone, though short, only heightens my anxiety.
“Saxton started the Bradford meeting without you,” Penny informs me when I arrive at the office. “They’re in the Windsor Room.”
Perfect, on the opposite side of the building. I reverse course like a rocket, but she grabs my jacket. “Necktie. Cologne. You’re a mess,” she says, handing me the silk Drake’s that I keep in the office and that I tie as she sprays me with her Eau de Guerlain.
“That’s women’s perfume,” I protest.
“You’ll live. Go.”
I burst into the Windsor Room, eliciting a gasp from everyone seated at the polished mahogany table. The Bradford brothers look perplexed, while Saxton just looks like he wants to kill me.
“Sorry, traffic was a mess this morning,” I justify myself.
“Not a problem, D’Arcy,” replies the eldest Bradford. “We’re practically done. Lawrence answered all our questions regarding the portfolio diversification proposal.”
Ah, they’re already done. Even though the delay is on me, I’m annoyed I wasn’t able to present my proposal myself. “If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to call me,” I reply affably.
We shake hands and they leave. Before I can go, Saxton stops me. “Sit down, Michael. We need to talk.”
I obey, pretending I don’t have a concern in the world. “What’s on your mind?”
“This isn’t good.”
“The Bradfords seemed satisfied with my investment plan,” I bluff.
“You’re too smart not to understand what I’m talking about.” Saxton sits in front of me. “But if you really want me to, I’ll enlighten you: At Friday’s briefing, you were falling asleep.”
“I was thinking.”
“You were asleep, Michael.”
“Okay,” I admit. I struggle to keep up with my own relentless schedule, and I’m caving under the exhaustion. I didn’t think it was that obvious, though.
“At the HSBC meeting, you presented the wrong draft of your presentation.”
“But I killed it,” I defend myself.
He gives me a cold look. “Stop talking back. You’re trying my patience.”
I raise my hands in surrender, and he continues with his litany of grievances. “You missed two meetings this week and . . . how long has it been since you shaved?”
“I’m resting my skin.”
“Do it this weekend.”
“Okay, I realize I’ve been underperforming ever so slightly as of late, but I can assure you my business instincts are intact.”
“You’re the best, Michael. You’re even better than your brother—may he rest in peace—but if you’re not at the top of your game, you’re of no use to me.”
At the mention of my brother, I clench my jaw, annoyed. Everyone thinks it’s a compliment to compare us, but no one realizes there’s nothing that offends me more.
“Do you want to fire me?” I ask directly.
“Never. We’re equal partners, but we can’t go on like this.
” Saxton stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets, and saunters around the table.
“I’m old; I want to enjoy my final years, my grandchildren, and my money.
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I think it’s best you know: When I retire, I intend to gift you my entire share. You’ll be the sole proprietor.”
My jaw nearly falls to the floor in amazement. “Are you serious? Sax, I don’t know how to thank you, I . . .”
“But not in your current state,” he interrupts me, serious.
“What state?”
“You’re addicted to work, but you can’t handle the massive load you’ve taken on.
You’re so obsessed with the company, with our business, that you don’t even understand what you’re doing anymore.
You work in the evening, you work on the weekend, you work while you eat, you work while you sleep . . .”
“That’s why I’m so good!” I protest.
“No, that’s why you’re so exhausted. You’re not capable of taking on the burden alone, and if you don’t get ahold of yourself, I’ll start looking around for someone else to take my share.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all. I’m trying to push you to take care of yourself. You could be my son, God knows I think of you as one, but if you can’t hear what I’m telling you, I’ll be forced to make decisions on your behalf.”
“If you don’t want to dismiss me, then what do you have in mind?”
Sax comes to a halt right in front of me. “Take a holiday.”
Huh? “I don’t understand.”
“How long has it been since you took a break? When was your last vacation?”
“A few months ago,” I guess. I always promise myself I’ll take a break, but I put it off every time an interesting deal or a new client appears.
“It was four years ago,” he replies. “I had HR check this morning.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” I comment sarcastically.
“You think you’re invincible. I thought so too at your age, but I have bad news for you: You happen to be human and, like everyone else, you need a rest.”
“Are you forcing me to go on holiday?”
“I want you back one hundred percent, not at half-mast, tired and sloppy. A distraction here can cost our customers millions of pounds and us our reputation. It’s my responsibility to ensure the business isn’t exposed to risk.”
This lecture is starting to annoy me. “Don’t you think you’re making a big deal out of a little tardiness, Saxton?”
“Maybe, but at sixty, I know a problem when I see one, and you’re a ticking time bomb. As of today you’re on leave for a month, and that’s an order, Michael.”
“May I object?”
“No.”
Giving up, I look down at the table grain. “Fine. But only because you leave me no choice—not because I agree.”
“And when I retire, I will give you my share, not because I have no choice but because you’ll deserve it.”
“How can I prove I deserve it if you shut me out of the office? It’s so . . . humiliating.”
“Spare me your pride and self-pity and be smart enough to admit you’re not at the top of your game. You may not see it now, but believe me, I’m helping you. Tell Penny to transfer your schedule to me and go home.”
“So what does this mean, a mandatory holiday?” Charles asks me over a sushi lunch at Nobu. “Are you complaining? If only I could have one! The closest I get to a holiday is a trip to see clients in Milan the day after tomorrow to show them samples for next year’s autumn-winter collection.”
“Saxton says I’m exhausted.” Just thinking about it notches up my blood pressure. “I told him I wasn’t remotely fatigued—do I seem exhausted to you?”
“No, not in the slightest,” Charles replies with a sarcastic grin.
“What have you decided to do with the inheritance?” I ask. He’d asked me for advice, but I decided to let him think about it first.
“I declined. As much as it pains me, the cons outweigh the pros.”
I could have predicted as much: If Charles’s future plans didn’t include a house in Tuscany, he wouldn’t be one to change them.
“Makes sense . . . Wait a minute . . .” A thought we hadn’t considered comes to mind.
Well, it’s normal that Charles wouldn’t have considered it.
He has no eye for investments, but that it didn’t occur to me is downright shocking. Maybe Saxton is right—I am exhausted.
“What is it?” he asks me with his mouth full.
“Have you already sent the formal renunciation?”
“I signed it, but I still have to send it,” he replies, chewing.
“Don’t do it,” I tell him slowly.
“Why?”
“Because you need to accept.”
“Do I?” Charles says to me in a surprised tone, after swallowing. “But I just told you—the cons outweigh the pros.”
“You accept and then sell the estate to the highest bidder,” I exclaim, seizing a nigiri and brandishing it at him like a weapon.
“Listen to me: Why give away the property to relatives you don’t even know?
With the profit, you can get a nice house in Primrose Hill, where you can raise your future family, and Caroline, with her share, will buy her penthouse in Nice, and you can finally get away from her. ”
“It does make sense,” he concedes. “But selling is also a chore I don’t want on my hands: Finding a realtor, buyers who make offers and disappear, months of waiting, endless negotiations . . .”
“Saxton & D’Arcy is full of potential buyers for an estate in Chianti.”
“Seriously?” he asks me, relieved.
“Seriously. Let me handle it, and I’ll find the fastest and best way to get it off your hands.”
“You have carte blanche, Michael. You know I’d trust you with my life.”
“The only thing I’d ask you is to do an inspection for me and check the building regulations to see if there’s any potential for renovation.”
“Me? I deal in fabrics, not real estate investments.”
“You’ll be in Italy next week, right? Extend your stay and take a detour to Tuscany.”
“You’d have to come too! You have a month’s vacation. Spend it on the estate and take advantage of it to close the deal. If you can really find me a buyer that quickly among your clients, think what a great impression you’ll make when you return.”
“Honestly . . .” I’d like to object, but his proposal is unassailable. He has a good reason, and it’s not like I don’t have the time now.
“Don’t say no, Michael. You know I’m right. How do you want to spend this time? It will be over before you know it. You always make fun of me for being a creature of habit, but you are too. It’s impossible to extract you from your routine. Go, see it, sell it. End of story.”
Indeed. How else could this end? I’ll go, see it, sell it. End of story.