It's Not What You Think (32 page)

I then went on to explain briefly our revenue and profit projections which were based on a three- to five-year exit plan.

The key to the whole pitch was that everything I was saying I believed to be true, something I hoped he would be able to perceive.

‘And do you have the rest of the money?’ he asked.

‘Yes sir, we do, every penny, we are 100 per cent ready to go.’

This bit was 99.9 per cent true as we didn’t physically have the money, but Michael, David and Barbara had ‘funds in place’, as they say.

‘Our lawyers, all twenty of them,’ I laughed, ‘have the contracts and loan agreements waiting at their offices ready to be signed. If you say yes, we can do the deal today.’

And with that I was done. I had said all there was to say.

‘Alright, thank you, that’s very interesting. May I think about it?’

This last question took me by surprise.

‘Er, yes of course,’ for the first time I stumbled, but it didn’t matter. I had done what I had to do.

‘Good, very good, OK, I will let you know. Thanks for the call, goodbye.’

‘Goodbye and thank you,’ I said now speaking from somewhere on the floor, having gradually slipped off my chair onto my knees in some kind of subconscious display of gratitude.

‘Alright Chris,’ said Richard with a smile in his voice, I think he could sense my relief that this ordeal was coming to an end.

The line clicked dead. I needed a drink.

David and Michael had been outside the room, guarding the door for the duration of the call and were both equally excited as well as anxious to find out how the conversation had gone. They also had thought to supply me with one beautiful ice-cold beer.

I informed them that although I had no previous experience of such matters to compare it to, as far as I could tell it couldn’t have gone any better. I reassured them that I had managed to get in most, if not all, of the points we had rehearsed and that Richard had listened attentively before asking a couple of questions and telling me he would let us know. Satisfied with our combined efforts we rewarded ourselves with a trip back to the bar for more beers.

Nothing further happened over the weekend. Once again, we had done all we could, all that was now left to do was wait. We had batted our ball over to Branson’s side of the court, what he did with it next was up to him.

It was four days later on the Tuesday of the following week when we received a response. It came in the form of a phone call from my old pal Kenneth Ibbett.

‘Richard says if you want the radio station, it’s yours.’

We could not believe it.

We had done it.

Well, we’d
almost
done it.

10 Excitement

  9 Frustration

  8 Anxiety

  7 Sleeplessness

  6 Patience

  5 Focus

  4 Doggedness

  3 Fastidiousness

  2 Fear

  1 Acceptance

The next week was absolute mayhem
as we raced to tie up all the loose ends and push the deal through. Although Richard had agreed to sell to us, he had not agreed not to sell to Capital—it was still us and them, not us instead of them. If Capital for one second woke up to the fact that we were a serious threat, all they had to do was get their pen out, extend their exclusivity period and they could have put an end to our fantastic adventure. We prayed they wouldn’t and decided to wise up a little.

I abruptly ceased all on-air mentions of anything to do with what might be going on, I quietly let the subject fade away. I also arranged to stay in a central London hotel for the next few days in case I was needed at short notice for one reason or another. I even stopped going out at night just in case I might get caught up in any ‘unfavourable’ circumstances. We really were so close now, it wasn’t worth risking anything that might jeopardise the deal of a lifetime.

With all our team working around the clock it was only two days later when we informed Richard’s office we were ready to sign. No more than ten minutes later the message came back:

‘Richard wants to see Chris at his house in Holland Park within the hour—alone.’

I told the guys.

‘There is no way you are going alone,’ was the resounding response.

‘But that’s what he says he wants,’ I protested.

Michael wasted no time in giving me both barrels.

‘Look, Chris, I was with you on the plane when you almost signed a contract on the back of a menu for a show you didn’t even know about. That was the last time I left you on your own with Mr Branson—remember?’

Of course I had no defence. Michael was absolutely right.

‘There is no way you are going to his house without me and that’s the end of it.’ The little man was adamant.

‘Or me,’ said David. The big man was adamant too.

‘Or me,’ said Barbara.

‘Or me!’ said Kirit, my accountant, who now joined our merry band.

It was difficult for me to argue with the team. They were all older, wiser and much more sensible than I was, although I couldn’t help feeling that whatever Richard wanted to see me for couldn’t possibly be nearly as sinister as maybe they suspected. Moreover—at some point in every transaction there has to be an element of trust. No matter how much the ‘legals’ get involved there has to be a willingness on both sides to make things happen. I had no reason to doubt Richard as he had no reason to doubt me, and furthermore Richard had specifically asked me to go see him on my own. To turn up mob-handed would be a flagrant rebuff of his request.

‘Are you sure about this, gang?’ I said. ‘Is all of us going really a wise thing to do?’

They were having none of it and were adamant I was not leaving without them. A few moments later we were huddled together in the back of a black taxi—destination Holland Park, West London, the home of one Richard Branson and the Virgin Group.

The atmosphere during the taxi ride was strained to say the least—it was a mixture of nervous apprehension and abject fear with no one really knowing quite what to say. This was another make or break moment and certainly the most important in a recent list of many, but the difference this time was none of us had any idea what was going on and why Richard wanted to see me ‘on my own’. Anything could happen in the next half an hour, all we could do was wait to find out what. After some tentative attempts at small talk the cab fell silent and we each took to staring out of the window with only our thoughts for company.

This was another of those moments when time seems to stand still. Suddenly from being thirty-one, I was back to being thirteen staring at the wall in the playground, wondering if Tina would ever speak to me again. Everything is real, yet it is not real. You are there; yet you’re not there. I could see the busy London streets with commuters marching onwards, head down, on the home straight of that day’s rat race. I could see all the cars on the road jostling for position but not really knowing why. I could see the meter inside the taxi clocking up the fare that I used to be so wary of when I first moved down South, wondering if it would reach the amount I had in my pocket before I reached my destination.

As we drew closer to our drop-off point and I realised where we were, I found myself having to take deeper and deeper breaths to calm myself down. Our cab trundled past the big black iron gates that lead to Kensington Palace opposite a cafe called Diana’s which proudly displayed huge pictures of the late princess in its window alongside the sandwich menu. We were now no more that a couple of minutes away—maybe less if the last set of traffic lights went our way.

I could feel my palms beginning to clam up, but now more with excitement than nerves. I reminded myself there are few opportunities to feel in life like this, and I should remember to enjoy it. Once again I told myself: I had nothing to fear—I had done nothing wrong and the worst that could happen was that in a few minutes’ time we would all be going home with our tail between our legs.

I concentrated on trying to stay in the now and it was working. I knew that what we were doing was a good thing and that we were doing it for all the right reasons. As I repeated this mantra to myself over and over I began to feel an amazing sense of renewed optimism.

All the long hours of the last two months combined with all those years right back from the lonely nights at Piccadilly Radio through to my early days in London up until where we were now, were coming together in one stellar moment. The kind of alignment that is often necessary to enable extraordinary things to happen. Suddenly I had this overwhelming feeling that it was all going to be alright.

10 Chris Lowe’s apartment—a wild party with the Pet Shop Boys

  9 Downing Street—drinks with the PM

  8 Checkers—dinner and a tour

  7 Bono and Edge’s house in France—pizza, wine and brandy

  6 Lord Lloyd Webber’s house, Belgravia—dinner and wine

  5 Lord Lloyd Webber’s house, France—dinner and amazing wine

  4 Elton John’s house, Holland Park—meeting with the great man

  3 Elton’s house, Windsor—charity dinner with Bill Clinton

  2 Damon Albarn’s house with Gazza, Damon wasn’t home—long story, maybe for the next book

  1 Richard Branson’s house, Holland Park—the night we sealed the deal

Richard owned two of the huge, white
stucco-fronted period houses that made up this the most majestic of roads.

Both his houses were next to each other and were entered via a set of white stone steps sheltered by a canopied walkway. One of the houses was his London home, the other his Virgin HQ. Ever since Richard had set up in business he had always done things differently, especially when it came to his offices. His first ever office was on a houseboat in Little Venice—all very cool, very cool indeed. As our cab pulled up outside, and we all bundled out I couldn’t help thinking how uncool we must have looked, very uncool indeed.

David had visited here many times before and suggested that we were probably expected at the house, which was the HQ, as opposed to Richard’s private residence. This is how it normally worked he said. After approaching the door, David very calmly stepped forward to ring the bell. He had assumed the position of team leader, something that was fine by the rest of us.

After a brief period of doorstep shuffling and more awkward silence, the grand entrance to this fine house swung open to reveal a glamorous lady dressed as a Virgin stewardess. He has stewardesses as private staff! This man really was living the dream.

‘Hello gentlemen,’ she pronounced courteously. ‘Madam,’ she added, nodding to Barbara respectfully. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Hi,’ said Michael smiling, overly anxiously, keen to make a good impression. ‘It’s Chris Evans to see Richard.’

Plainly this was an inaccurate statement—it was Chris Evans plus four to see Richard.

‘Sure,’ said the lady, understandably a little confused. ‘Please, do come in.’

We entered the hallway of the house and were requested to wait at the bottom of the stairs as the ‘ground stewardess’ daintily trotted up them—all four of us boys attempted to avert our gaze so as not to be seen taking a peek at her almost perfect bottom, which of course we all wanted to. Isn’t it good to know that no moment is too powerful to conquer the hold the female form has over the simple male?

Barbara, for her part, looked ‘professionally’ down at her shoes, aware of how pathetically predictable we were being.

‘Is she really a stewardess?’ I whispered to David.

‘Kind of,’ he replied.

I was about to press him further on this subject when the pretty lady trotted back down the stairs.

‘Richard will be with you in a moment,’ she smiled, before quietly adding in almost a whisper, ‘but I think he only wants to see Chris,’ and with that she brushed past our group and disappeared off down the hallway.

This last piece of information, ‘
But I think he only wants to see Chris
,’ although communicated to us more as a piece of friendly advice than as a stern warning, was nevertheless designed to leave us in no doubt as to its meaning.

So there we were, now feeling more awkward than ever, knowing for sure we had goofed. We were at the bottom of Mr Branson’s stairs in the full knowledge that we were five which was currently three men and one woman surplus to requirements. ‘Told you!’ I wanted to say triumphantly, and I would have done had it not been for the sound of galloping footsteps thundering down the stairs.

Seconds later, as if by magic, there he was, larger than life for all to see. Dressed in jeans and one of his upbeat stripy sweaters—Ricky B, rock and roll king of the corporate world, here to say hello.

Richard stopped short of coming all the way to the bottom, electing instead to halt and lean over the banister where, like a swashbuckling hero ready for a duel, he declared, ‘Ah, Mr Evans, I see you have come with many men…and one fair maiden. Well, I must ask you to tell these others their presence is not welcome here,’ he exclaimed jokingly. ‘They may go and help themselves to a drink in the kitchen. This is just about you and me, sonny,’ and with that he cackled like a pantomime villain.

He was clearly playing with our collective paranoia but we were all so frozen with apprehension we forgot to laugh.

Sensing the urgent need for us to be rescued from ourselves, Richard thought it best to promptly break into one of his trademark smiles.

‘Seriously guys, relax,’ he said almost apologetically, ‘there’s nothing to worry about—none of the stories are true,’ he then laughed again, even more mischievously this time, he couldn’t help himself, we were rabbits caught in the headlights although this time we did remember to laugh—sort of. Richard continued his reassurance, ‘You guys go through to the back and grab yourselves a refreshment while Chris and I nip upstairs for a quick chat. Is that alright with you, Chris?’

‘Sure,’ I said, suddenly remembering to be excited again.

‘Good, come on then, let’s go,’ Richard enthused.

Without looking back, I went to bound up the stairs after him when I felt the all too familiar grip of a small but firm hand on my arm preventing me from moving anywhere—it was the same impressive hold I’d felt on Concorde a few months before—the right hand of Michael, my trusty and loyal agent. He was in full on protection mode again.

‘
Don’t—sign—anything,
’ he mouthed.

‘
Don’t—worry—I—won’t
,’ I mouthed back but I couldn’t get up those stairs fast enough.

Richard and I entered his office and there I was alone with the main man in his inner sanctum. It was so like I had wanted it to be—a very laid-back affair, much more New York loft than shiny big business. The furniture had that chic beaten up look to it, like it could have been from the set of an Eighties Mickey Rourke movie. There were a couple of funky pictures on the wall, an old rug thrown in the middle of the floor, several lamps with wonky shades, a small collection of books upon a shelf, and a fabulous
globe in the corner—but best of all were the four objects sat on the window sill behind his desk.

They were: a model Virgin plane, a model Virgin train, a model Virgin balloon and a model Virgin speedboat.

I couldn’t help smiling—it was perfect.

Richard invited me to sit while plumped down in his own chair.

‘Can I get you anything—tea, coffee, some water perhaps?’ he asked kindly.

‘No thanks, I’m OK,’ I replied.

As we both settled, there was a brief moment of quiet as Richard looked at me and just beamed. It was a ‘don’t worry it’s all going to be alright’ kind of look.

He then spoke.

‘Alright, so young man, how are you?’ he asked sincerely.

‘I’m fine thanks,’ I replied, it was true, I couldn’t remember ever feeling better in my life.

Richard was now tapping the tips of his fingers together under his nose like a contemplative professor.

‘Well, it appears…from what I have heard at least…that we are ready to go…that we are ready to do this thing—as they say.’

I replied sounding like a member of the CIA responding to the President. ‘That’s right, sir, I believe we are,’ I felt an official response was called for and this was as official as I could sound.

‘Wow, that’s pretty impressive,’ Richard offered, I presumed he was referring to my statement and not my newly officious tone.

‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ I replied, I was genuinely humbled by his compliment and didn’t really know what else to say.

What followed was another pause—this one longer than the last. Richard was now looking ever so slightly more serious. He was staring straight into my eyes. His hands now clasped together under his chin.

I couldn’t imagine for one second what he was thinking—not that I was trying. He was bound to tell me when he was ready. All I had to do was hold his gaze, that’s what I was focused on. He was plainly looking for something, some sign to tell him what he wanted to know. He looked at me a little while longer and then after a few moments, as if satisfied looked down at his desk to break the connection. Whatever it was he was looking for had either happened or not. I presumed I was about to find out.

‘Alright now,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that I am fully prepared to sell you the radio station here and now, but before I do so, there is one thing I have to ask you and you must promise to tell me the truth, OK?’

Wow wee, had he really just said that he would sell me the radio station? Well, yes he had, but he had also stated quite categorically that I was still one question and answer away from that actually happening. Now, what the blazes was the question?

‘I know,’ he said, ‘that you have put almost all the money you have in the world into this deal—just over two million pounds, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Very well, I now need you to tell me that you understand that if you buy this radio station and for one reason or another things don’t work out, that you will more than likely lose everything—that is to say that your money been designated as the least senior debt and will be the last to get paid back—if at all. Therefore it is the most ‘at risk’. Now bearing in mind you have less money than everyone else involved in this deal and even though I know this is your dream, based on those facts—are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure you want to go forward and proceed with this, because nobody is saying you have to and you don’t have to, but once we have both signed, there’s no turning back?’

And that ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is all he wanted to tell me. He simply wanted to make sure that I knew exactly what I was getting myself into and that I also knew that nobody was holding a gun to my head telling me I had to do go through with this.

I was blown away by his consideration. Never in a month of Sundays would I have guessed this is what he wanted. In the middle of all the madness, Richard had slowed the train right down to make sure I didn’t want to get off and to tell me that I could if I wanted to. To show that level of concern for my personal well-being and to show me that, in the end, no matter how big the deal, nothing is more important than people is a sentiment that will stay with me forever—what an absolutely top man.

With a sigh of relief and a heart about to burst, I gave him his answer.

‘You have my word, Richard,’ I assured him breaking out into as wide a smile as I could manage, ‘I know my position and I definitely want to do this.’

I had never been more certain of anything in my life.

‘Alright then,’ he said, the big Branson smile instantly returning. ‘Let’s do it.’

Thirty-six hours, thousands of pages, and over one hundred signatures later, I would become the proprietor of Virgin Radio, the jewel in the crown of the soon to be formed Ginger Media Group.

What could possibly go wrong?