Look Closer

At first, I was going to hide it, but Vicky needs to see a thing or two, small things, to show that some massively expensive, over-the-top item is merely chump change to me.

“Seriously,” she says. “This must have cost thousands.”

“Good return on investment,” I say. “They’re built well and last a long time. Amortize it over their life and the per-unit price—well, it’s expensive but much more reasonable.”

“I didn’t know people amortized toothbrushes.” She puts down the toothbrush and puts her hands on my bare chest. “Must be nice to be so rich and smart.”

She puts her lips against mine. I can feel her smile.

She wants more of me. This time, we’ll use the bed.

—

Afterward, Vicky looks over my apartment, lost in thought.

I don’t own this place. I’m renting, though I’d never tell Vicky that. When I moved back to Chicago last summer, I didn’t see the wisdom in buying. I knew I wouldn’t be staying too long, and besides, I only have about a million dollars saved up, and I want to keep as much of that liquid as possible. Rent a really nice place in an expensive neighborhood, I decided, and even though the rent will be exorbitant, it will be short-term.

Still, as nice as this place is, it doesn’t scream mega-wealthy. My bio suggests that I’ve made hundreds of millions of dollars in my bold investments, so this condo might not seem nice enough. My go-to line is that I tie up most of my money in my investments, so I’m putting my money where my mouth is, I’m in the same investments that I’m putting you in, which is a pretty nice sell job in itself.

On those occasions that my cover story is a man with money, like here, I try to make clear to the target that I grew up humbly (true), learned to be frugal (sometimes true), and those habits have remained. Yeah, I have all this dough, but I’m not going to plate everything in gold or buy more space than I need.

It’s a balance. Wealth is attractive to women. Uber-wealth, in my experience, can be intimidating. So I try to straddle the line, show her an occasional glimpse of my obnoxious wealth—see the titanium toothbrush—but otherwise try to keep a humble, low profile that downplays materialism.

“The condo’s temporary,” I say. “I like the neighborhood, and the property values are still rising around here. It’s a solid investment.”

“Everything’s an investment with you.” She puts on her bra and panties, then her skirt, then her top, in that order. “You think you’re going to settle here in Chicago?”

There it is. I knew she’d ask eventually. She’s wondering about my intentions. I think I know hers: She’s going to leave. I’d bet anything. When she takes that money from Simon after serving her ten-year marital sentence, she won’t want to stick around and see Simon’s sad face. She’s getting the hell out. But where, I don’t know.

New York? No, I don’t see it. I don’t see her as a Manhattan girl. I mean, she’d enjoy the buzz and nightlife, she’d fit right in there, but she doesn’t really strike me as big-city. She doesn’t seem to give one shit about the difference between a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Carruades de Lafite and some bottle of red I’d pick up for twenty bucks in a grocery store. When I’ve brought up theater and music, she doesn’t bite, hardly adds anything to the conversation. But then again, it’s hard to see her settling in some small town and having my babies and baking cookies, either.

Vicky has done an admirable job thus far of keeping her own counsel. And even to me, someone who has staked his life’s work on reading women, the opposite sex remains somewhat of a mystery.

What I know about Vicky Lanier is this: almost nothing. Every time I ask her about herself, she deflects. She mentioned something about an unhappy childhood. She’s made one offhand comment about “West Virginia,” and I did what I could with that last week, some unsophisticated googling. Research is not my strong suit and not something I really need for my purposes, and I can’t bring in Gavin because then he’d know her name; she would be Vicky Lanier Dobias and not “Number 7.” But I did enough on my own to know that a teenager named Vicky Lanier went missing in 2003 from Fairmont, West Virginia.

That must be her. So she didn’t get off to a good start in life. She’s a scrapper, a survivor. She’s had to go it alone. My guess? Simon Dobias gave her stability and comfort more than love and passion. And she saw a meal ticket. She saw all those dollar signs and made a decision based on need. These almost-ten years married to Simon have been an investment.

But now, asking me about my intentions? That’s Vicky’s way of feeling me out about next steps. She’s thinking about a life with me. She’s too cautious to say that outright, but she’s thinking about it. And it scares her. I have to make sure she trusts me.