—
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, soI’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.
“The great thing about my job,” I say, “is I can do it anywhere. Here or Manhattan or with my toes in the sand in Monterey. I’ve thought about Paris, I’ve thought about the Tuscany region. I’ll probably stick to the States, so I can keep my eye on trends, which is harder to do remotely. But who knows?”
She’s watching me as I say this, matter-of-factly, while I pull on my pants. I usually leave off my shirt for as long as possible because women love my abs.
“So it wouldn’t have to be in a big city?” she asks.
Yep, she wants to know. She’s fantasizing about places—though which ones, I don’t know—and me with her.
“Not necessarily,” I say. “What about you? Do you always want to stay in Chicago?”
Volleying that serve back in her court, in just the same, low-key, indirect way, not confronting her with the idea of a future together but dancing near it. If she’s going to move slowly, so am I. Don’t rock the boat, likeGavin and I discussed. Keep Number 7 on the steady and narrow until November 3.
When I look over at her, she’s gazing out the picture window that looks onto my patio and far away to the city’s magnificent skyline.
“I’m not staying in Chicago,” she says. “Anywhere but Chicago.”
—
“Let me take you to dinner,” I say.
“Where?” she asks.
“Wherever. You name it. There are twenty places within walking distance. Or anywhere else.”
She chews on her lip, checks her watch. It’s coming up on seven in the evening. “It’s getting late.”
“Afraid to be seen in public with me?” I laugh.
She looks at me. “Not in the way you mean it, but actually, yes, I am very afraid of that. Wouldn’t you be, if you were me? What if someone saw us?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose.”