He looks like he did in his photos. You never know, but he’s true to it. Mid-thirties, the obligatory well-tailored suit but still no tie, because no, he won’t be tied down by convention, he thinks outside the box, and besides, it shows off his thick neck.
Still rough-shaven, just like his beauty pics on the website, which is interesting because it means he takes the time to shave it just so, not too hairy, but sexy stubble. Still that sweep of the hair made to look messy. This one goes to a lot of trouble to look like he didn’t go to a lot of trouble.
His office doesn’t present like the other sedate ones I saw. He has a leather couch on one side with some fancy lamp hanging over it. A bar with premium liquor. An ego wall, framed articles written about him, some photographs of him with famous people. Three flat-screen TVs on another wall—CNBC, Fox Business, and Bloomberg—plus rolling indices from Nasdaq and Nikkei and the Dow Jones. None of it means anything to me. I understand the financial world like I understand nuclear physics.
“Closest thing in life to a contact sport,” he says to me. “Everyone out there competing. I like to keep an eye on the playing field at all times.”
He sits behind a steel desk and looks me over. He checks me out without trying to be too obvious about it, but men are usually obvious. I have a pretty good idea of what he’s seeing. He wouldn’t mind going a round or two with me, but not marriage material.
My sister, Monica, she was marriage material. Monica was the prom queen, the cheerleader, the A-student, the girl with the radiant smile and infectious laugh every boy chased. Me, I was the trashy younger sister, not nearly as pretty but with bigger boobs and a come-hither smile, who smoked cigarettes off campus with the burnouts and got kicked out of school for having sex in a library carrel.
When I couldn’t be my sister, I was determined to be everything she wasn’t. And at that, I wildly succeeded.
“The great thing is, it’s not a zero-sum game,” he says. “Everyone can win. You just have to play it right.” He drops his hand down on his thin steel desk, which contains nothing but an autographed baseball and two fancy computers. “So, Mrs. Vicky Lanier, how can I help you?”
“I’m interviewing financial advisers. People you probably know.” I lay out the business cards of the other three advisers I met today. “I’m about to come into some money.”
He glances at the cards. “I’ve just relocated to Chicago,” he says. “So I don’t know them personally. But Iknowthem, if you know what I mean. I know thousands of them. And I’m sure any of them could adequately ‘manage’ your money. But that’s not what you want.”
“It’s not?”
“No, you want to grow it. You don’t want to fly first-class. You want to own your own jet.”
I sit back in my chair, cross my legs. Definitely a more aggressive approach. Those other men, with their smooth small talk, their bullshit about forging relationships and getting to know the individual needs and wants of each investor, risk-mitigation, and asset-preservation strategies. Trying to make me feel secure and safe. This one, he’s saying, buckle up and prepare for blastoff.
“You said you’re about to come into some money,” he says. “An inheritance? Not a death in the family, I hope?”
“No. My husband Simon’s money, actually.”
“Ah, Mr. Lanier.”
“Dobias,” I say. “Simon Dobias. I kept my maiden name.”
“Very good.”
“But I’ll be making the decisions about money,” I say. “In twelve weeks, at least, I will. I want to be ready when that happens.”
He pauses on that. He doesn’t understand. “What happens in twelve weeks?”
“We celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. November the third. Then I get the money.”
“Ah,” he says. “Sounds like there’s a trust involved.”
Very good, Christian Newsome. Indeed, there is.
“Simon’s father left money in a trust for him, yes,” I say. “You’ve dealt with trusts before?”
He waves a hand. “All the time. You’d be amazed at what people do with their money. That’s their business, not mine.”
“Right now, the money is held in Simon’s name only. According to the trust, once we’re married for ten years, it becomes joint property.”
“Those were his father’s terms? You had to be married for ten years before you could access the money?”
“Before I could access it... or before Simon could even spend it on me.”
Christian sits back in his chair. “Really.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, an edge to my voice. “There’s a trustee who has to approve every expenditure from the trust. Simon could buy a car, but it has to be in the trust’s name only, meaning Simon’s name only. He could buya second house in Florida or something, but in the trust’s name only—Simon’s name only. Simon tried to buy me a diamond necklace for our fifth anniversary and the trustee said no, not with trust money, he couldn’t.”