Page 29 - James Caan - The Real Deal
P. 29

2 · Growing Up Fast



            but to me it was just more of the same. It was still his business,
            not mine. It wasn’t my dream, it was his, and deep down I was
            starting to understand that I would never feel the same way about
            it as he did. It’s no coincidence that now, when I invest in a
            business, I actually invest in the person leading that business. If
            they don’t have that dream, if I don’t feel their passion, then it
            doesn’t matter to me how good their financial forecast is.
               I had always looked up to my father and admired him as much as
            I loved him, but his insistence about the business made my need to
            rebel even stronger. I just wanted to escape, and for the time being
            that meant spending as much time with my mates as possible.
               In the spring of 1977 I was becoming desperate for indepen-
            dence, and like most teenagers I just didn’t want to be told what
            to do. Sneaking out was like getting one over on my dad, and so
            I started to go out even more. Even on school nights. One night I
            went out to a club called Room at the Top in Ilford with a friend
            I had met called Bernie. He was a year or two older than my other
            friends and had already left school, so he was up for going out any
            night of the week. He was quickly becoming my best friend, and
            we’d had such a good night that we didn’t want to go home right
            away. We stopped off for a takeaway, and that meant I didn’t get
            home until 3.30 a.m. I crept up the drive, opened the side gate and
            stole up to the back door to get the key from under the mat. Only
            the door wouldn’t open. It was bolted from the inside.
               At that moment I knew instantly what had happened: my father
            must have got up, maybe for a glass of water, seen that the door
            was unbolted and realised that one of us had gone out. I also knew
            that my bedroom was the first place he would have checked for an
            empty bed. Not only was I locked out, but there was no doubt that
            it had been my father who had deliberately locked me out. I was
            pretty scared.
               I tried the downstairs windows, but this was early spring and
            they were all closed. I couldn’t think of a way to get in without




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