New York - The Novel

said, of course, but while he winced at the school fees, these were the guys giving the million-dollar gifts to the school and going onto the board of trustees. He knew. The kids knew too. People always knew, in New York. The worst occasion, though, had been in the fall of ’99, when he and Maggie had gone to dinner with Peter Codford.
    Peter Codford had been at Columbia with Gorham. He had then gone into venture capital in California for a while, later setting up his own private equity operation in New York. He and Gorham hadn’t seen each other for many years when they happened to meet at a conference, and Peter had invited Gorham to dinner.
    Peter Codford was six feet four inches tall, with a spare, athletic build, and he still had the same full head of dark brown hair that he’d had when he got his MBA. Only the lines on his face had deepened. The effect was to add to the image of casual authority that he’d possessed even in his twenties. His wife Judy was lively and clever. It also turned out that she and Maggie had known each other at law school.
    “I went on working for a while after Peter and I married,” Judy told them. “But then Peter had to move, so I stopped, and I never went back to work again.” She smiled. “I rather regret that.”
    The Codfords lived in a fifteen-room apartment near the Metropolitan on Fifth. It was a palace, and would have contained Gorham and Maggie’s Park Avenue apartment more than twice. Peter also had a house in the Hamptons, on Georgica Pond, and another apartment, on Nob Hill in San Francisco.
    The conversation was certainly easy. Both couples had the same background and outlook, as well as some shared memories. Gorham was interested that Peter was similarly cautious about the dot.com boom. “People have made a lot of money,” he said, “but there has got to be a big correction.” Peter also wanted some information about the politics of loan decisionsat the commercial banks. Had it changed in the last year? He sketched a situation at a company in which he was a minority shareholder. What would be Gorham’s advice if they wanted to approach a commercial bank for a loan?
    They talked about their families, and Gorham and Maggie learned that Peter and Judy had lost a son.
    They discussed the millennium bug. Were all the world’s computers really going to crash when the date went to zero? “The bank has spent a fortune preparing for it,” Gorham said, “but Maggie reckons nothing will happen at all.” He was also curious to know what areas Peter was looking to invest in next. “America will continue to be our core business,” Peter said, “Europe, less and less. We think the Far East will be the growth area for the future. In a couple of years, Judy and I may move to Hawaii, to be nearer the action.”
    It was a pleasant evening, and afterward Gorham and Maggie walked home down Fifth.
    “I really enjoyed that,” said Maggie. “It was a nice surprise to meet Judy again.”
    Gorham nodded, but said nothing. They walked on in silence for a block.
    “What sort of money do you suppose Peter has?” he said at last.
    “I’ve no idea.”
    “He must have a hundred million, at least.”
    A hundred million. Once upon a time, a million bucks was a lot of money. But the bar had been raised a long way since then, especially in the last two decades. For the truly successful, Gorham reckoned, for a man like Peter, in the new global economy, a hundred million was only entry-level rich. How many people in New York had a hundred million dollars these days? A lot, certainly. Rich with a capital R, these days, was a billion.
    “What’s the matter?” asked Maggie, when they’d gone another block.
    “My life has been a total failure.”
    “Thank you so much. That’s really nice to hear. Your wife and children count for nothing, I suppose.”
    “I don’t mean that.”
    “Yes you do. We’re your life, you know.”
    “Of course you are. But he and I did our MBAs together. Professionally he did it right, and I didn’t.”
    “That’s garbage. You did something different, that’s all. Tell me something: when would you say you’re most happy?”
    “When I’m with you and the children, I guess.”
    “I’m really pleased to hear that. Did you notice that Peter told us he’d lost a son? And you really think he’s more fortunate than you?”
    “No, just more successful professionally.”
    “Be grateful for what you have, Gorham.” They went on in silence