by Real Business - Thursday, 30th August 2007

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We like entrepreneurs. But they're not always the easiest people. Dynamic, energetic, ruthless, utterly dedicated... and often isolated. It's tough running your own company, bearing the psychological burden of the whole business and usually with no-one to turn to. In this two-part section, we reveal the personal stories behind business success.

part one

In part one, we turn the tables. After all, if you want to know what entrepreneurs are really like, don't ask them. Ask their wife or husband. So we asked one partner to tell us what life had been like over the past three years as her beloved negotiated and imple-mented a major deal. For the sake of their future, we've kept the story anonymous. But it's a revealing and unadulterated story.

Living with an entrepreneur: the true story
What really happened when Sue met Jack.

It's 8.30 on Saturday night. I'm waiting for Jack to come home from the office. He said he'd be done by 6pm but I learnt long ago to add at least an hour to his deadlines. (There's "Normal Time" that most of us operate under; and then there's "Jack Time" that moves at an entirely different speed - usually, at least an hour behind the rest of us.)
Still, it's been a hectic week. Two new restaurants opening in the next ten days and he's exhausted.
Oh yes, it's exciting, all this battling with the builders, negotiating for sites, hiring staff, it's creating something, isn't it? It's growth. It's what they call "rolling-out-the-concept." It's what he went through all the hell of money-raising for. It's the reason I spent that Italian holiday on the beach alone while he was on the phone getting heated about something called mezzanine debt. It's what being an entrepreneur is all about. Isn't it?
The phone goes. It's Jack. He's sitting on the floor of the ladies loo of one of the new restaurants in the West End. He's got one hand on his mobile, the other stuck over a pipe that's burst a leak. It's been running for two hours, he says, and the place is flooded out.
He's worried about the floor, put down yesterday. He's worried about the electrics. He's worried about the opening on Wednesday. And he is still worried that the staircase he had the builders move two days ago because they'd put it three feet too far to the right, is still not in the proper place.Meanwhile, I'm worried about whether when the plumber said he'd be there "within the hour" he meant it. Everyone knows about Plumber Time.
Surely there must be someone else who can stick their finger over the hole, I say, trying hard to convince myself that my traipsing round Tesco and slaving in the kitchen will not go entirely to waste. I mean, he's the boss, isn't he? He's the chairman and the chief executive, the one who does all the big stuff - the branding, the culture-setting, the financing, the market analysis, the leadership thing. Is there really no-one else who can spend their Saturday evening on the floor of the ladies loo trying to prevent his newest restaurant from turning into a swimming pool?
Sadly not. For despite all you may read and all you may hear about the glamorous life of the entrepreneur, this is really what it's all about. It's not about black tie dinners at the Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane and being voted Entrepreneur of the Year; it's not about smiling press pictures on the front of the FT when the business reaches the stockmarket, it's not even about making money. It's about sitting like a boy with your finger in the dyke on a Saturday night because that is what needs to be done.
I first met Jack three years ago. He'd recently sold his last business, he told me one day when I made some comment about how great it was to have a boyfriend who, unlike all the City suits I'd met, did not appear to be a slave to his job.
"It won't always be this way," he warned.
Bit of an odd thing to say, I remember thinking. Of course I didn't expect he'd be around so much once his next "deal" got going but, hey, that was life and we would handle it. What I did not realise was the life I'd flippantly imagined I could handle, and the one I was about to inherit would be utterly unrelated.
Unbeknown to me, I was about to step on board the Entrepreneurial Express.Of course I knew it was going to be a rollercoaster ride when I got on board but, from the backseat, you can't see the precipices. Is today going to be a day of screeching bends or gentle inclines? Is today the day when the whole thing comes off the rails?
When I met him, Jack had been negotiating for some time with the owner of a four-outlet restaurant business to buy him out. He knew the market, he'd grown food businesses before, he'd run the numbers, he had the vision and he knew he could make it work.
Apart from the cash-flow from the four restaurants he would inherit, he would be starting from scratch: new concept, new brand, new systems, new training, new people and a plan to open up across the country in the next three years, then float or sell.
If only the owner would make up his mind. For weeks, Jack tweaked the offer. He worked from home, long hours into the night disentangling the numbers. He hired accountants, lawyers, corporate finance help. Could he make the numbers stack up? Could he satisfy the seller, his investors and the bank, without creating a rod for his own back by over-promising?
Back and forth Jack would go, up one day, down the next. The sunny, unencumbered man I'd met disappeared. He was tired, drained, anxious, pallid from a lack of fresh air and living off bowls of muesli for days on end. And all the while the fees were building up; over £100,000 of fees he would have to pay - whether the deal came off or not.
I, meanwhile, stood on the sidelines watching, hoping, waiting and trying - rather unsuccessfully - not to take it personally that he had shut himself in his flat and was not coming out till the whole thing was over.
Life With An Entrepreneur, lesson one: this is not, repeat, not your problem.There was nothing I could do to solve Jack's problem. Much as I certainly felt the ramifications of it and much as I was desperate to phone up the owner myself and scream, "For God's sake, stop being such a greedy, difficult bastard. Now make your bleeding mind up", there was nothing I could actually do. Only Jack could do it. (And actually, even though he would never admit it, he probably did not even want anyone else to do it.)
Within the big crisis, there were smaller crises. Jack's lap-top broke down at a critical moment, taking with it all the latest deal numbers. I traipsed round Acton, west London on my day off in search of a man who had promised me faithfully over the phone that he could fix it overnight for no more than £150. Ten desperate days later, the lap-top finally reappeared - with a £400 bill attached.
Another day I found myself calling the refuse collection department of the local borough council quizzing them on exactly what time a black sack of rubbish collected from Jack's flat would be heading into the incinerator.His cleaning lady had inadvertently thrown away a huge pile of his personal and business tax return documents he'd been gathering to send to his accountant. It was a disaster. Jack was completely distraught.
Needless to say, by the time I called the council, the papers were history - in retrospect it is probably just as well since the man on the other end told me he that while he could identify the lorry load of sacks picked up from Jack's road, the rest I would have to do myself - by hand.
I didn't realise it then, but during this time, life was on hold. Everything stopped for the deal. Jack's life was the deal. My life became the deal. "Once the deal's done," I'd find myself saying to friends who, from the orderliness of their own salaried lives, just could not understand why they never met Jack. Some joked that maybe I'd made him up altogether; at times I began to wonder whether they were right.
And then finally, after months of agony and expense, it finally happened. Alleluia. Glory Be. There is a God after all. Jack had done the deal. At last, I remember thinking, things can get back to normal.
Big mistake. Life With An Entrepreneur, lesson number two: there is no such thing as normal life.
For at least two years after that, I'd tell myself: "Once he's raised the next round of finance... once he's opened these next restaurants... once he's found a new office... once he's hired the operations director... once he's replaced his PA... then all will be well. Then we can have friends round for supper, then we'll be able to plan things, book holidays, accept invitations, safe in the knowledge that either a) we will not cancel or b) I will not end up going on my own.
How could I have been so stupid?
On the Entrepreneurial Express, the world does not divide as it does with the rest of us into work-life and non-work life. Sure, professional hired hands - lawyers, bankers, accountants, they all put in the hours, they all get stressed and bring their worries home in an over-stuffed briefcase. But they can always quit. It might be difficult, it might be demanding but it is never that single, all-consuming, inescapable, invasive, never-endingness of your own business where there really is no-one else to turn the lights off but you.
When his money, his reputation, his sense of achievement, his sense of self-worth rests with the fortunes of the company, there is no quit option on Jack's keyboard. The rollercoaster may slow down at times, but it never stops. The bumps may get smaller, but they never disappear.
From the moment Jack bought the company - no, even before he bought it - there have been three of us in our relationship. To begin with I saw the business as his mistress, something exciting, alluring, full of promise. Now I recognise it more as his needy child - I think it was the burst pipe that did it - as something that needs nurturing, coaxing, training, shaping, directing and needs it now, not tomorrow, not next week. But right now.
What does all this mean in real terms to me? It means spending Sundays driving all over London looking at sites for new restaurants. It means spending weekends visiting sites under construction. It means staring at ten different cups with ten different logos and in ten different shades of blue on the kitchen table at 10pm and trying to make helpful comments about why "this one" really is "the one." It means planning to go on holiday on Saturday and finding out on Wednesday that it will have to be the following Saturday. It means wanting to murder his excellent PA who suddenly decides she wants to become a nurse - how could she?
It means skulking round restaurants on your holiday in Milan, surreptitiously taking photographs of other people's interiors to inspire the designers back home. It means emptying your handbag at the end of the week and finding it stuffed full of other people's sugar sachets, menus and napkins you've collected in your travels because you thought they looked nice.
It does not mean lots of nice lunches in Jack's restaurants - unless what I really want is to sit there on my own while he clears tables, deals with a customer who has just had her bag stolen and tries to get to the bottom of why the manager has got in a tizzy and stormed out.
It does mean desperately trying to wrack your brains to see if you can think of anyone, anyone who would make a good chief executive, anyone who might want to invest, anyone who can go round to that wretched banker's office, biff him on the nose and tell him to "butt out."
It also means you are the one who picks up all the "admin" of life. Because an entrepreneur does not have time to go shopping, go to the dentist, have his shoes mended. Jack's car has sat outside our house for almost a year with a dead battery. He did manage to buy a charger; that was a month ago and now the battery is sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be put back in. Instead, he rides to work on a scooter.
Just last week, I was standing at the sink washing lettuce at about 9.30pm when Jack came in from work. He didn't collapse on the sofa, as usual surrounded by piles of paper, he seemed thoughtful, he had something to say, something important. Children? Marriage? Buying a new house?
Staring intently at the lettuce, I steadied myself. "Do you know," he said. "We sold 20,000 cups of coffee yesterday. And the Heathrow outlet on its own sold 20,000 in a week. Twenty thousand!"
Then he said he was a bit worried about a photo-shoot the manager of one of the Soho restaurants had organised for tomorrow. Why? Ken Livingstone had agreed to have his picture taken in the restaurant with one of the staff who in his own time is a transvestite and planned to dress up as Miss Vanilla Latte? Oh, and yes, he'd decided he probably would try and float the company in the autumn.
Life with Jack is rarely dull. "An adventure", is how he described it when I asked him what he thought it would be like living with an entrepreneur. Of course I am amazed by, proud even, of what he has created: 300 people on the payroll, a great brand and, more than that, a business that people genuinely seem to enjoy being part of.
But feeling proud is one thing, living with the man who's done all this is quite another. Once I had mastered lessons one (It's not your problem) and two (No such thing as normal life, ever), I began to see that happiness on the Rollercoaster ride hinges on three things: one, having my own life that is entirely independent of Jack's; two - and probably most important of all - not banking on a single thing, and three, learning to embrace the adventure.
Because the chances are, just when you think you can handle this ride, your rollercoaster will veer off on a different set of tracks headed in an entirely new direction.

The author of this article preferred to remain anonymous. Surprised?

part two

In part two, we find out about the tough, emotional side of running a small company. So often, it's one person who's responsible for the mood of the company, the destiny of its people, the state of the business' finances.

Small wonder then that many experts reckon that being an owner-manager is the loneliest job in the world.

Why running your own company is the loneliest job in the world.
This is a story that is rarely told. It's about time someone told it.

Chris Blishen held an away-day a few weeks ago. Nothing unusual in that. An MD and a few directors holed away in a quiet hotel in Hitchin, discussing the future of their small digital equipment business.
But this was a notable event. Yes, they'd had meetings before to talk about the company's performance. But in the 12 years since Blishen took over the family business from his father, this was the first time that he had sat down together with his co-directors and asked: what next?
So why now?
One thing. One simple, common, everyday... and somewhat taboo feeling that's probably familiar to anyone who runs their own company. That sense of being alone. For after 20-plus years of involvement in John Blishen & Co, Chris Blishen was a bit uncertain. After all those years of running a tight ship, of spotting canny new product opportunities, of being the figurehead for his dozen-odd employees, of being the face of the company out in the marketplace, there were some real questions about exactly what to do next. He needed to talk.
"I've always been good at identifying new technologies," says Blishen from his plain offices on the edge of trendy north-west London. "I've always been good at the nitty-gritty of running a small family company. I'd be surprised if we've ever had bad debts of more than £5,000, our systems are great, our phones and computers are all spot-on."
So what's different now? "It's hard to find new inspiration all the time."
Blishen's industry has changed. And so has he. For many years, he's pounded the trade exhibition circuit, picking up ideas such as state-of-the-art laser printing paper, video visualisers, high-resolution digital cameras, and selling them - early - into large publishing houses and the newspaper industry. John Blishen & Co's reputation as a pioneer is unrivalled.
But there are few sectors of business more ferocious and fast-moving than computer consumables. In digital cameras, for example, Blishen is trading on tiny gross margins. Few will pay extra for customer support. The pressures are relentless. It's rare for companies to stocks product now, but customers still demand next-day delivery. And then there's the internet. Again, Blishen was quick into the game. He saw clunky, first-generation versions at US trade shows back in 1991. "Back then it looked like the most boring thing in the world," he smiles. It's an obvious growth area for the small company now, but "I have tremendous problems seeing how people can make money out of it now."
And, of course, he's 12 years older - 45 in fact. He's comfortably off. With two teenage kids and a liking for skiing. For many years, he's been the heartbeat of his little business. But now he faces the trickiest decisions of his business life: do we launch afresh into new product areas? Do we stick with what we know? What about the Internet? What next for John Blishen & Co? No wonder he called an away-day.
Businesspeople seldom talk about loneliness and isolation. Movers and shakers are cast as resilient souls, able to take all knocks, to withstand all pressures.
But, in private moments, owner-directors will explain that it's tough to be the place where the buck stops. In their hands lie the career hopes of their staff; the ambitions of their shareholders; the legacy of their business.Who's kept awake at night as the bank balance bobs around its overdraft limit? Who takes the hard choices when a senior member of staff isn't performing? Everyone will have some advice when the business attracts a bidder, but who makes the final call?
Even in the most democratic organisations, one person will be the fulcrum. Their personality imbues the company, fires up its people, provides its values. What if that person's off colour, feeling a bit low? Oh, won't someone else deal with this for once!?
"Isolation is a big problem throughout business," says Professor Carey Cooper of Manchester School of Management, who's spent years investigating this area. "It happens until an organisation reaches a size when management roles are differentiated and there's share ownership throughout the company. But it's tough getting to that point."
You'll find lonely bosses in even the biggest companies, says Cooper. A macho culture persists in the corporate world. It just isn't "done" to be candid. In smaller companies, where each staff member is vital, owners will be reluctant to talk about their problems, in case they deter their staff. "You can't afford to lose your best people, especially in the early days. So entrepreneurs have to be strong," says Cooper. "Their staff, their investors, their suppliers, their customers - they all expect it. Imagine how people would react if they showed their weakness."
And people skills are not the entrepreneur's most developed skills. "They're great at ideas, great at selling, great at products," says Cooper. "But the HR/managing people part of it..."
"It appears easy to be decisive," says Blishen. "But it's obviously not very good to make loads of bad decisions. You're isolated because you don't always know what to do next. The loneliness comes from the indecision. "When the orders are streaming in and you're successful, you'll feel less isolated. But the quiet periods in business can be troubling. You want the phone to be going constantly."
Blishen is hardly alone in all this. Eighteen months ago, Henry Young reached a "watershed" in the garment business in which he's spent most of his working life. Seeing the trend towards more and more overseas clothes manufacturing, he wanted to close down the UK operation. His then partner disagreed. Even if you're not a sole proprietor, it can be a solitary life running your own business. "You can't talk to a friend if you have a problem in business," says Young. "Sometimes you don't know who to talk to." He did thrash out his issues with a group of other MDs. Eventually, he and ex-partner David Rose parted on amicable terms.
And here's Meriel Winwood, who runs her own secondhand computer broking business, Ascent. "It's lonely because there isn't anybody else who's carrying the same level of responsibility," she says. "If things go haywire, it's me who has to worry about whether I can pay them or the VAT bill."

A wry smile from Bob Donnelly. This American consultant - and Real Business "Streetwise" columnist - has been advising smaller companies on growing pains for years. He's worked with all sorts of entrepreneurs in all sorts of situations. Bear with him:
"The person who starts a business is usually a technical expert in something," he says. "So when they start up, they're very concerned that someone will steal their idea. This starts them off on the path of secrecy - and it makes their behaviour seem odd to their colleagues. Everything they do becomes shrouded in unnecessary paranoia.
"As the business gets bigger, they get further removed from the business and their original technical expertise. The more technically oriented they are, the less likely that they've educated themselves in the realities of running a business. So they have a series of totally predictable problems.
"First, cash-flow gets tight, so they have to hire an FD. Next, they experience production problems - they may be great at coming up with models, but they don't know how to produce hundreds of thousands of products. So they hire a professional production manager. Then they need to push hard on marketing. In comes a marketing manager.
"All the time, the business is getting bigger. And guess who's running the show? The managers. They're not entrepreneurial at all; they're simply good at their functional tasks. The founder recedes further into the background, less and less sure of what exactly is going on in his own business.
"However, he's the leader, the MD/the CEO. He has to pretend he knows what's going on. He can't admit that he doesn't know what to do next. He's the serf-turned-king, but he can't even go back to the serfs because they're surrounded by professional managers. So he gets more and more anxious, wondering whether this thing has got beyond him.
"This inevitably leads to loneliness because they don't have anyone to talk to. I know an MD who drives into work, puts his PC on - he doesn't really know how it works - and spends the whole day sitting there, wondering what to do.
"At this point, the founder has two choices. They can either sell it, or bring in a professional CEO to run it. The worst thing they can do is bring their family in."
Aargh.
There is, of course, an obvious answer to all this. Talk. Share. As Cooper says, "the real problems occur in companies with a 100 per cent owner. The sooner you can bring someone in to share the emotional load - as well as the work load - the better." (People with a stake are also less likely to up sticks.) But again, it's easier said than done.
Andrew Mabbutt used to unload business problems on his wife. "But she soon developed the cry-wolf syndrome," says the 34-year-old boss of Smart Connection, a very successful, fast-growing telecoms business. "A partner can be a great support in the early days of the business, but they can easily get bored of the same old issues."
When are Mabbutt's loneliest times? "Definitely when you have a disagreement with a senior member of staff. This could be over their role, their remuneration, or the direction of the business. You must, must, must handle these situations very carefully. Get it wrong, and they can walk away grudgingly. If that happens, they will have a detrimental effect on the rest of the company. Why do these situations breed loneliness? Because these are the same people that you would normally talk to if you had a problem. But if you've had a run-in with them, you can hardly talk to them about how to deal with it."
Mabbutt is one of a growing band of entrepreneurs who use networking clubs as sounding boards for their frustrations. He runs the UK arm of the Young Entrepreneurs Organisation. For him, talking to other MDs has been a revelation. "In our meetings we've talked about everything from people's marriage problems to what happens if you're being ousted from the board.
"Back in the early days, I didn't have this network of contacts. The feeling of isolation was very severe then. I didn't know whether what was happening was the norm. One Friday afternoon, I'd been expecting a £100,000 order. Then I got the call from the MD. The order was ours. I was elated and I spent the weekend celebrating. Then at 8.30 on Monday I got another call. The client's chairman had intervened and given the order to our main competitor. I was devastated. I felt like crying. But of course I couldn't, because you can't do that in front of your staff. You can't share that feeling of despondency."
Mabbutt's advice? Talk now, rather than later. "Small issues can become big ones if you don't air them. Whoever you've got to talk to, talk to them quickly."
Not every owner-director will have an obvious shoulder. And if there aren't any other shareholders, it'll be difficult to find anyone who cares quite as much. Accountants, bank managers, consultants, they can all offer some views. Family will offer emotional support. But as Blishen says, "you can talk to people as much as you like, but at the end of the day, nobody except you can make the decisions."
So after all the hard thinking, where is Blishen headed? What were the conclusions from that away-day? "It's pretty hard to know in which direction to go. We have some successful products in our range, and I'm always looking for new opportunities. But right now, I'd like to go off and ride my bike in the sunshine, But that's at this particular moment. In a year's time, I'll probably feel completely different. This might just be my mid-life crisis. I'm sure that something will just click and we'll be buzzing again. Then I'll feel a lot less isolated."

Matthew Rock is editor of Real Business.

There are a number of networking organisations that regularly bring together groups of owner-directors - usually for an annual fee. These are always confidential meetings. Some readers may find them useful.

Andrew Mabbutt runs the Young Entrepreneurs Organisation in the UK. You can contact Andrew on 020 8380 6204/andrew@smart.uk.net

Accountancy firm BDO Stoy Hayward runs KITE, a similar regular club. Henry Young is a devotee. "It is very lonely running your own business," he says. "You can't talk to friends about business problems. Sometimes you don't know who to turn to. So it's good to have a brainstorming session with people." It's run by Peter Foster. Tel: 020 7893 2331.

The Academy of Chief Executives has been around for years. Sue Cheshire is the best contact. Tel: 07000 223369.

TEC is another networking organisation.The number is 01962 841188.

You can contact Bob Donnelly on rmdonnelly@aol.com

John Blishen & Co is on 020 8968 0071.

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