Darren Entwistle, the boy king of Telus, buried his mother when he was 12. That was in 1974. Ever since, he has been in a rush—a rush to get things done, to build, to succeed, to leave his mark. In 2004, he lost his father. "I always feel my time is limited," he says. "Maybe it's because my parents had cancer and died young."
Entwistle turned 44 in August. For a CEO of such a tender age, he has accomplished a lot, culminating in September with the plan to convert Telus, Canada's second-largest telecommunications company, into an income trust worth more than $20 billion. Along the way, he reversed Telus's fortunes and humbled BCE, owner of Bell Canada. He has robbed Bell of big contracts and outpaced his rival in most areas that count, especially on the wireless front, where Telus's growth and profits have been nothing short of phenomenal. He has made himself wealthy—he earned about $9.6 million in salary, bonuses and exercised stock options in 2005—and rewarded himself, and his family, with a 40-foot Sea Ray motor yacht. He probably could have any telecom job he wants in North America or Europe.
Yet he is still impatient, still in a rush, still frustrated, because his achievements (in his mind) came too late and with far too much effort. In short, the man is not happy, and hasn't been since the moment he took the job in Vancouver in the summer of 2000. Entwistle doesn't need better press or better investor relations or more money or a bigger boat. He needs satisfaction—but how? "He should be happy," says Charlie Baillie, the former TD Bank boss who is a member of the Telus board. "If he's not happy, he should be, because he's accomplished so much."
It's not an act designed to elicit praise. Entwistle is no bundle of joy, really. "I wouldn't do it all over again," he says.
Thomas Darren Entwistle (the first name never stuck) was only 37 when he arrived at the rather grubby Telus building on Robson Street in downtown Vancouver and punched the button for the eighth floor. He was a complete unknown in Canada, and a true oddity for the CEO of a large company. He looked like a freshman but talked like an elder statesman giving a speech at the United Nations.
Today, he still looks half a decade younger than his age, despite a gruelling work schedule and a penchant for fine red wines and late nights on the town. His speech pattern hasn't changed either. His words are chosen carefully; his sentences are measured. He often responds in paragraphs when a sentence will do. He uses painful words like "inculcate" and "fruition" and "dichotomy." There are frequent pauses while his brain reloads for another explanatory salvo. But there is no monotone. When he gets excited, or wants to drive home a point, his voice booms and fills the room. Your choice is to pay attention or cower.
He is sedate when he talks about his childhood, perhaps out of respect for his parents. Entwistle was born in Montreal in 1962, the son of Desmond Entwistle and Dorothy Greenshields. Desmond was a Bell lineman, one of the guys who climbed poles and strung the phone wires across cities and the country. Darren was the couple's only child. The boy had a normal, unprivileged childhood in a middle-class part of town, playing hockey and hanging out with his family (Dorothy had 12 siblings). Then his mother became ill. Breast cancer became liver cancer and her condition turned terminal. "I used to spend my Saturday nights in Royal Vic Hospital in Montreal," he remembers. "Her death created a big hole in my life. My mother was such a strong individual, physically and mentally."
Darren and Desmond pressed on alone. His father remarried when Darren was 15. By then, the teenager had found some distraction and solace by combining work with schooling. His first job was at a Coca-Cola bottling factory, working the 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. shift and having his share of what he calls "I Love Lucy" misadventures, like falling on conveyor belts and sending bottles flying. Two years later, care of his father, he landed a job that would change his life.
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