Learning Curve (6 page)

A
lison waited for the crowd, its members now muttering amongst themselves, to leave the room. On the screen, Validator and Crowen stood at the podium being photographed. Alison studied them with narrowed eyes. Then she turned to Givens, who sat beside her. He saw her look and said, “We've always wondered when. Now we know. Here they come.”

Alison nodded. “Let's talk in my office,” she said softly. She rose, straightened her vest, looked back at the remaining employees in the room, and smiled at them. “Nothing we didn't already know about,” she told them reassuringly. Several of the employees smiled and nodded in reply.

Armstrong knew enough to close the office door behind him. Alison sat at her desk, beneath the big Diane Arbus poster, and stared up at him with curiosity. “You remember when you joined this firm that I told you I expected you to on take a second role besides product manager?”

“Daycare center director?” deadpanned Givens.

Not even a flicker of amusement crossed Alison's face. “You've been in this Valley longer than most of us have been alive. You know these men. So tell me, who's behind this unexpected move by Validator? Who are we fighting? Crowen?”

Armstrong put a finger to his lips. “I've known Dan for a long time. Since
his banking days. And this certainly isn't his standard operating procedure. If he were to do something as radical as this, he'd roll it out carefully over two or three years. He'd probably be late, but he'd do it right. No, this smacks more of the Old Man. Cosmo doesn't just shoot the wounded, he shoots the people he
expects
will be wounded.”

“But Crowen is CEO now,” said Alison. “Validator's hardly around. Doesn't that suggest that this is Crowen's initiative?”

“Yes it does. And that's what's so puzzling. I don't get it yet. But we'll figure it out soon enough.”

“It better be soon enough,” said Alison. “This is a major move by Validator Software. And it's aimed directly at us. And we better be able to respond intelligently… and quickly.”

“Understood,” said Givens. “But look on the bright side, Alison. At least I got you out of one those dreary and pedantic Tipo presentations.”

Alison gave a small smile and pulled a blue strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, there is that.”

Givens was heading out the door when she called to him. “Oh, and Armstrong? Work your old Valley network and find out how Tony D. is feeling about all of this. I'll bet he isn't very happy right now.”

Armstrong Givens nodded knowingly, and disappeared.

D
inner that night was at Delancey Street Restaurant, the dinner place run by rehabilitated ex-cons just off the Embarcadero, south of the Bay Bridge. It wasn't a great restaurant, but it was good enough. The concept was admirable, and most important, it was just a couple blocks from the eTernity offices.

Alison rushed in from the foggy San Francisco night to find Dale Corman, her live-in boyfriend, already seated and waiting. And fuming.

“I'm sorry,” Alison said automatically.

“Not important,” said Corman, rubbing his hand over his bearded chin as he always did when he was annoyed. “I've already ordered our dinners.”

“What did you get for me?” Alison asked as gently as possible.

“Does it matter?” Corman asked. “It's not like you're a foodie or something.”

“No,” said Alison, “I guess not.”

“I picked out some wine, too,” said Corman. “It's appropriate for our entrees.”

“Good. Thank you. How was your day?” asked Alison.

Dale shrugged, his long black hair falling down his cheeks and onto the shoulders of his black Gibson t-shirt. He was always irritated by this question about his day, though Alison asked it every night. “You don't think I work as hard as you do? Do you have any conception of how difficult it is to write a novel?”

“I didn't mean it that way, honey.”

“No. No. Of course not. That's why it's always the first thing you ask me. I don't make you justify what you do all day. Do I?”

“No you don't.”

“That's right. Sometimes I honestly think that just because you make all the money in this relationship that somehow you are morally superior to me.” Corman's eyes flared at Alison, which only made him even more attractive in her eyes.

“You know that's not so,” she said softly.

“You're damn right,” said Corman with triumph. “We each have our roles. And I bring the higher qualities of art to our lives.”

“Yes, you do,” said Alison with the sexiest smile she could manage. She was ready to go back to the apartment with him right now.

A stocky waiter with a bent nose appeared beside them. He said in a gruff voice, “I see the lady has arrived. Shall I serve your dinner now?”

An hour later, they were standing in the Lucky 13 bar in the Castro, drinking Chimay and shouting over a Tom Waits song with a group of Corman's friends, all fellow writers. It struck Alison fleetingly that she had no real friends of her own—only workmates and employees, and she knew almost nothing about their personal lives. Instead, she was here, listening to Kevin, 300 pounds stuffed into a black leather coat, leaning on a carved sword cane and expounding on the plot of Robert Lennon's
Mailman.
Walter, a 6'3” beanpole in a plaid lumberjack's shirt, had claimed that whole sections of the book were “insufferably boring,” and now Kevin was arguing that the book's
longeurs
were its best parts.

As usual, Alison listened, smiled, supported her boyfriend, and endured the affectionate condescension of the “real” artists with which she found herself night after night. But this evening—perhaps after the news of the day—she found herself both weary and impatient with Dale and his friends. The loud music and red lights made her head throb. Her lust at dinner was now long gone.

Finally, when she could take it no more, she squeezed Corman's arm and half-shouted into his ear. “Okay if we leave early tonight?”

Dale made a sour face. “Look, I'm having a good time with our friends here. And there's some things I need to talk with them about. Maybe you ought to just take off without me. I'll be home soon enough.”

“Okay, but don't be too late, baby,” Alison said. She fished through her purse, came up with a hundred dollar bill, and slipped it into Corman's hand. “Save enough for the cab home,” she told him.

“I can handle my own business,” he told her, rolling his eyes at his friends. “Don't wait up.” He gave her a quick kiss and returned to his conversation.

But Alison, as always, did wait up, if only to make sure that Dale was safe. Finally, her eyes heavy, she undressed and put on one of her late
father's old dress shirts, one he'd worn to IBM's Almaden Research laboratory back in the day. She left the curtains open and climbed into bed. As she reclined against the headboard with the blankets tucked under her chin, she looked out on the lights of the Financial District and thought. As always, she willed herself to begin with memories of good times with Dale… but as always, within minutes, her mind moved to the next set of challenges facing eTernity and how she would deal with them.

And it was with those oddly comforting thoughts of her company, her employees, and her own role as CEO, that Alison gently slipped into sleep.

S
he awoke early to find Dale snoring beside her, his hair across his face, his clothes balled up on the bedroom floor. She made as much noise as possible while putting on her running clothes, half-hoping that he would wake up and pull her back into bed. When those efforts failed, she shrugged and made her way out the door and down the elevator to the street.

It was a beautiful morning, the great City just awakening. Alison smiled briefly at the old black man who was emerging from behind the cardboard barricade he created each night in a nearby alcove. The man, who never spoke or asked for money, nodded gravely at her.

Alison felt unusually charged this morning. Perhaps it was yesterday's news. It had begun by being so troubling, but by the time she had fallen asleep, it had begun to seem like an opportunity. She had left her cell phone in the apartment, and now she had an uncomplicated, uninterrupted hour or more to jog down the Embarcadero past the many piers—from the Ferry Building to Fisherman's Wharf, then all the way back—and to work through her company's response. A run, a challenge, and a beautiful morning: it was all she needed to be happy.

By the time she returned to the apartment, her face and pony-tailed hair slick and oily with sweat, the street was filled with cars. More than one besuited businessman sneaked a peek at the trim blonde in black running tights and Google publicity t-shirt as she paced back and forth on the sidewalk to cool down.

When she returned to the apartment, she found that Dale had managed to turn over on his stomach. Hoping that he still might awaken in time, she stripped down to her sports bra and panties and set about noisily making espresso and a bowl of granola, yogurt, and fruit. But it was to no avail. And it was only after checking to see if his breathing had softened at all that she glanced over at the cellphone she'd left on the nightstand… and saw that she had a message.

A lump formed in her throat. Phone calls this early in the morning were never good news. She grabbed the phone. Glancing down at Dale, she decided she'd rather take the news alone and went into the bathroom.

Before she hit the Play button, Alison checked the number. Menlo Park. Odd. Less worried now, she played the message.

It was the deep, sonorous voice of Arthur Bellflower, legendary venture capitalist and chairman and lead investor in eTernity. “Alison,” his voice said, “I apologize for calling so early in the morning. I hope you are there and are awake. I need you to come down to my office immediately. Shall we say 9:30? I will leave a message at your office as well.” She could hear other voices, the deep voices of older men, in the room with Bellflower.

She glanced at the clock. Eight fifteen. Shit. This was going to be close. As she turned on the shower, she made a return call to Bellflower's secretary at Manzanita Capital to confirm the meeting. Then she hurriedly stripped and jumped in.

Twenty-five minutes later she was dressed and driving her Prius out of the underground parking garage and out onto the street. The old bum, now sitting on an aging folding chair, nodded at her. Alison looked up at the skyway: it was gridlocked with commuters. It'll be better the other way, she told herself, at least until I get to Woodside. Then I'll start praying. Glancing around and checking in the rearview mirror, she tapped in the number for eTernity, then sneaked the phone up to her ear under her still wet hair. When her assistant David answered, she told him to clear her schedule for the rest of the day.

H
ighway 280 was clearer than usual. It was a magnificent sight: the freeway and its cars poured down the long Valley, the great Crystal Springs reservoirs on their right. The dark blue-green hills rose above the water, thick fog pouring down them in a wave.

Alison was always thrilled with this view; it was one of her favorite in the world. She had driven this route many times over the years—to her old jobs at Apple and Google, to romantic weekends in Half Moon Bay, and—impossibly long ago—when she had arrived from Portland, Oregon in a VW Golf jammed with her possessions on the way to her first day at Stanford Business School.

But today she barely registered it. What mattered was the traffic ahead as she passed through the intersection with Highway 92.
Oh thank God,
she said to herself.
It's moving.
Twelve minutes later, as the familiar little clock tower read 9:23, Alison swung around the circle at the entrance to 3000 Sand Hill Road. She shot past the old Sun Deck restaurant, where she had celebrated the first big round of funding for eTernity, and then swung into a parking slot between an Aston Martin Vanquish and a vintage Mercedes convertible sedan.

The elegantly dressed receptionist gave Alison a warm smile. “They are waiting for you in the conference room, Ms. Prue,” she said with an educated British accent. “The usual? Non-fat latte and a shortbread cookie?”

Alison paused in front of the conference room, pulled down the front of her suit jacket, tucked back her hair… and tugged open the big mahogany double doors.

Inside, there were a dozen men, all instantly familiar to her. They were standing in knots, drinking coffee and talking; when she arrived, they all quieted and turned. It took only an instant now for her to recognize them as representatives from all the venture capital firms, angels, and institutions who held equity positions in eTernity.

The fear that had been lurking in the back of her mind ever since she'd heard the phone message now surfaced:
I'm going to be fired
. Why else would they make this show of force? She swallowed hard and fought back tears. She had only a few seconds to make a case for keeping her job and her reputation.

At that instant, Arthur Bellflower stepped into Alison's field of view. He had thick, short-cut gray hair, a tanned face lined from too many windy days on Scottish links, an impeccably tailored suit (the joke was that he could still wear the same clothes as he did in college, but he never wore anything for more than a season), and impossibly white teeth.

“Ah,” he said. “There she is. The Woman of the Hour.” He kissed her on the cheek and stepped back. “I'm glad you could make it on such short notice…” His left hand swept the room.

“I'm sure you know everyone here.”

Alison nodded warily. Why was Arthur being so cordial?

“Well,” said Bellflower, “we know how busy you are these days, so we won't take much of your time. I've spoken with each of the gentlemen in this room. As you know, they represent more than sixty percent of the ownership of your company.”

Alison nodded.

“We find ourselves in unanimous agreement that we have a brief window of opportunity, much of it created by the Validator Software announcement yesterday… you did see it, yes?”

Alison nodded again, then cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Yes, I was sure you did. Anyway, we have concluded that this is the moment for eTernity to begin the process of making its first public sale of stock. We'd like to go out within the next six months.”

Sounds of assent filled the room. Alison glanced over and saw Ed Lessing of Mayfield Fund, cup and saucer in his hand, smiling and nodding at her. Alison turned back to Bellflower. “An IPO? Now? This was supposed to be a couple years away. When we were bigger. And the market was better.”

“Yes,” said Bellflower, rocking slightly on his heels. “That was before. Now, after yesterday, everything has changed. We think Validator Software has made a terrible strategic mistake, one that tilts the playing field in your favor. The market is going to like that. You're going to need a lot of capital to consolidate this advantage—the kind of money only public ownership can provide.”

And, thought Alison sourly, it's the perfect moment for all of you to cash out with enough profit to cover all of your other bad investments over the last couple years.

Terry Bingham, the hot-shot head of Cisco's corporate venture fund, spoke up. “Frankly Alison, there's no indication that the stock market is going to get better anytime soon. This may be as good as it gets for a while.”

Alison began to respond, then put up her hands. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But I'm confused. I seem to remember that when we founded this company four years ago, you all assured me that any decision to move towards a liquidation event—be it an IPO or an acquisition—would be the result of extended deliberations between myself and my staff and all of you. And that this event would be set for at least a year out to spare the company all the chaos and dislocation this kind of event inevitably causes.”

Arthur glanced at the other men, then smiled at Alison. “That's exactly what we're doing, Alison,
deliberating.
That's why we're all here. And that is why you were invited here. We have all of the time we need this morning to
deliberate
on this Initial Public Offering idea, and to come to some kind of agreement on how to proceed.”

“I assume all of you are unanimous in your support of this IPO?”

Heads nodded. “That is correct,” said Bellflower. “Unanimous. And you don't need to do any calculating to appreciate that this group represents more than sixty-two percent of the company's outstanding warrants.”

“So,” said Alison stiffly, “it's a
fait accompli
. Why am I here?”

Bellflower's face became stern. “Because, my dear, we haven't gone this far with you—we haven't put this much trust in you—to suddenly overrule your executive decisions. This will be
your
choice, Alison. We're merely here to help you make that decision and to present our case.”

Alison, sensing an opening for at least a little control over her fate, folded her arms across her chest. “Assuming I do agree with you all,” she began, “what's the hurry? Why not take the time to do this right?”

Bellflower chuckled. “Oh Alison, really? ‘What's the hurry?' I never thought I'd hear those words from you, of all people. From the moment we first met, here in these very offices, I can't remember a day when you weren't urging me to move more quickly.”

Alison couldn't help but smile at him.

The door behind her opened. “Ah,” said Bellflower, “here's your coffee and biscuits, Alison.” He stepped forward and took both of her hands. “Come, young lady, let's have a seat. We'll drink some coffee, tell some war stories, and have a little talk. Then we'll come to some decisions.” His hands were surprisingly soft and warm.