and preparing for our
next day of skiing. It was exactly what we both needed, and I was
quite confident that Ginny wouldn't mind capping off the trip with
a mountaintop proposal followed by an exceptional dinner in the
village.
Imogen was still coming to work with me every day.
It was a staggering development. I had thought that I may have been
on the way to convincing her to work with me full-time, even though
she feigned consternation about coming to an office on a daily
basis. Something told me that a proposal would change her mind.
With Christmas just around the
corner, we were moving into full holiday party mode. I had received
several holiday party invitations from a bunch of our portfolio
companies, as well as some from other companies that were always
courting our business. Tonight we were attending one such
party.
The invitation arrived from Jake
Cooper, an old friend from law school and the CEO of a social media
and video delivery company. They were always very creative with
their invitations. This one was a video of his office dancing like
a bunch of crazy people. How could you turn down that sort of
invite? In all honesty, I couldn't care less about the invitation.
What drew me in was that the party was going to be at the top of
the Gansevoort Hotel.
The Gansevoort was located in the Meatpacking
District of Manhattan. Amongst the trendy restaurants and
twenty-something hipsters running around there sat the luxury of
the Gansevoort and her heated rooftop pool. In the city, a rooftop
pool was an oasis. And one in a luxury hotel was even better. I
used to spend countless summer weekends at the rooftop pool,
spending way too much money on food and alcohol, hitting on women
and hanging out with my friends. If I could only turn back the
hands of time.
Ginny had never been to the
Gansevoort. How that was possible was beyond me. I was still amazed
when Ginny told me that she hadn't been to this famous place or
that in or around Manhattan. She always answered me the same way:
"I'm not into that sort of scene." I was never quite sure what that
meant, but it didn't really bother me. Most likely it was because
she didn't spend her twenties and early thirties in New York City.
She'd moved to New York after living in London her whole life. She
said she'd wanted a change after she'd retired. So she'd packed up
and moved herself to an affluent suburb. Bought herself an
eight-room mansion and settled in. We'd met about six months later,
when I'd finally come to the realization that I was too old to be
running around Manhattan every night, drinking, chasing women, and
generally running myself ragged. Selling my first company for a
fortune hadn't hurt either.
We were back at the brownstone
getting ourselves dolled up and ready to attend the party. I, as
per the norm, was ready first, dressed in my typical getup of a
black suit, black shirt, and no tie. I poured myself a scotch,
relaxed in my brown leather club chair, and stared out the window
at the place across the street. It was a white brownstone. From my
apartment you could see across the road and directly into the
living room through their large French bay windows. You could see
the Miro hanging above the couch, the Picasso off to the side of
the living room. An enormous bejeweled Victorian chandelier hung
from the ceiling, blocking, from my view, what was most likely a
painting by Manet. This person must look into my brownstone and ask
himself what sort of pauper lived there. Who was I kidding? They
were so rich that they were probably never home. Too busy at one of
their six other homes.
A drink and a half later, Imogen
emerged in a stunning black dress that complemented her beautiful
features so exquisitely that it made me feel guilty I was even
internally questioning the time it took her to get herself ready.
To round out the outfit, she wore an antique necklace comprised of
a singular evergreen emerald dangling from a gold chain. It made
her eyes glow.
"Don't you
next day of skiing. It was exactly what we both needed, and I was
quite confident that Ginny wouldn't mind capping off the trip with
a mountaintop proposal followed by an exceptional dinner in the
village.
Imogen was still coming to work with me every day.
It was a staggering development. I had thought that I may have been
on the way to convincing her to work with me full-time, even though
she feigned consternation about coming to an office on a daily
basis. Something told me that a proposal would change her mind.
With Christmas just around the
corner, we were moving into full holiday party mode. I had received
several holiday party invitations from a bunch of our portfolio
companies, as well as some from other companies that were always
courting our business. Tonight we were attending one such
party.
The invitation arrived from Jake
Cooper, an old friend from law school and the CEO of a social media
and video delivery company. They were always very creative with
their invitations. This one was a video of his office dancing like
a bunch of crazy people. How could you turn down that sort of
invite? In all honesty, I couldn't care less about the invitation.
What drew me in was that the party was going to be at the top of
the Gansevoort Hotel.
The Gansevoort was located in the Meatpacking
District of Manhattan. Amongst the trendy restaurants and
twenty-something hipsters running around there sat the luxury of
the Gansevoort and her heated rooftop pool. In the city, a rooftop
pool was an oasis. And one in a luxury hotel was even better. I
used to spend countless summer weekends at the rooftop pool,
spending way too much money on food and alcohol, hitting on women
and hanging out with my friends. If I could only turn back the
hands of time.
Ginny had never been to the
Gansevoort. How that was possible was beyond me. I was still amazed
when Ginny told me that she hadn't been to this famous place or
that in or around Manhattan. She always answered me the same way:
"I'm not into that sort of scene." I was never quite sure what that
meant, but it didn't really bother me. Most likely it was because
she didn't spend her twenties and early thirties in New York City.
She'd moved to New York after living in London her whole life. She
said she'd wanted a change after she'd retired. So she'd packed up
and moved herself to an affluent suburb. Bought herself an
eight-room mansion and settled in. We'd met about six months later,
when I'd finally come to the realization that I was too old to be
running around Manhattan every night, drinking, chasing women, and
generally running myself ragged. Selling my first company for a
fortune hadn't hurt either.
We were back at the brownstone
getting ourselves dolled up and ready to attend the party. I, as
per the norm, was ready first, dressed in my typical getup of a
black suit, black shirt, and no tie. I poured myself a scotch,
relaxed in my brown leather club chair, and stared out the window
at the place across the street. It was a white brownstone. From my
apartment you could see across the road and directly into the
living room through their large French bay windows. You could see
the Miro hanging above the couch, the Picasso off to the side of
the living room. An enormous bejeweled Victorian chandelier hung
from the ceiling, blocking, from my view, what was most likely a
painting by Manet. This person must look into my brownstone and ask
himself what sort of pauper lived there. Who was I kidding? They
were so rich that they were probably never home. Too busy at one of
their six other homes.
A drink and a half later, Imogen
emerged in a stunning black dress that complemented her beautiful
features so exquisitely that it made me feel guilty I was even
internally questioning the time it took her to get herself ready.
To round out the outfit, she wore an antique necklace comprised of
a singular evergreen emerald dangling from a gold chain. It made
her eyes glow.
"Don't you
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