“You got it.” Marcus’s answering grin is all teeth. “So how about it? We can start with something small—say, five million—and go from there.”
I nearly choke on the sip of wine I just took into my mouth. Five million is considered “small?”
Ashton rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the fucking money’s yours. Why else am I here tonight, right? But five mil won’t even make a dent in all this cash I’m swimming in. I’ll give you twenty to start, and if you don’t double it too quickly, I’ll give you more by Christmastime.”
“I’ll do my best to keep your returns moderate,” Marcus says dryly, and across the table, the Gyles brothers, who must’ve been listening to the whole thing, burst into laughter.
* * *
To my relief, the dinner goes smoothly from that point on. I share the delicious crab appetizer with Marcus and even brave a bite of Ashton’s escargot—he offers it to me upon learning that I’ve never tried the classic French dish. It’s surprisingly good, all garlicky and buttery, with a texture that reminds me of a firm mushroom.
By the time the main course comes out, I feel infinitely more at ease, and I find myself chatting not only with Ashton, who’s sitting next to me, but also with most of the others at the table. For some reason, everyone is curious about how long Marcus and I have been dating and how we met, as well as what I do, and as I ask them questions in return, I find that Kendall was right.
Rich people are, ultimately, just people.
Grigori Moskov, the tech billionaire, immigrated to the United States as a child and still has some relatives in Russia. He’s also a serious dog lover; his Siberian husky travels with him everywhere—a major perk of owning a private plane, he explains. I show him pictures of my cats, and we bond over our furry companions, so much so that he teaches me how to say “cat” in Russian.
It’s kot if male and koshka if female, though there are also about a million cute diminutives like kotik, kiska, kotyonok, and so on.
Weston Long is a slightly tougher nut to crack. According to Ashton’s discreetly murmured explanation, the California-based real estate tycoon has just gone through an acrimonious divorce and thinks all women are after his money. That hits a bit too close to home for me, so I try to be polite but distant with him, and we end up discussing books—specifically, the latest mystery by my favorite author, who, as it turns out, is Long’s favorite as well.
In contrast, the Gyles brothers—who are so alike in mannerisms and appearance that I have trouble thinking of them as separate individuals—are happy to talk about anything and everything under the sun. I soon learn that they are indeed old money (something to do with weapons manufacturing during World War II, though they’re vague about the specifics) and that they know every celebrity I can name. They also pry out of me the fact that I was raised by my grandparents after my mother was killed in an accident and that I don’t know my father. The only thing I’m keeping my mouth shut about is the name mix-up through which Marcus and I met; all I’ve been saying tonight is that we ran into each other at a restaurant in Brooklyn—on the off chance someone here knows Emmeline.
The Gyles brothers seem to know everyone, so I wouldn’t be surprised.
The most reserved of the bunch is Bob Johnson, the older guy who manages the pension fund, but after I talk to him for a bit, I see that he’s actually just shy. I warm up to him immediately—I love shy people—and by the end of the night, I know all about his two grown daughters and the infant grandson he adores, as well as his long career in the California school system. He was a math teacher for many years before going to work at some quant shop on Wall Street—from which he recently got hired to manage the Teachers’ Union pension fund.
“Their investments are completely undiversified, very heavy on fixed income and blue-chip stocks,” he tells me, and I nod sympathetically, though I have only a vague idea of what that means. “They haven’t even considered hedge funds, can you believe that? No wonder they’re worried about being able to pay all the upcoming retirees’ pensions.”
“Yeah, no wonder,” I echo, and that seems to be enough to keep him talking about the subpar returns the pension fund’s been getting and how he plans to change all that, starting with allocating a greater portion of their assets to higher-risk, higher-reward alternatives like Marcus’s fund.
“That’s a great idea,” I tell him, and I mean it. I may not know much about diversification strategies and proper investment allocation, but I do know Marcus, and if anyone can ensure that all those teachers keep getting their pensions, he’d be the guy.
Bob beams at me and starts using even more finance lingo, at which point Marcus joins the conversation, and I gladly focus on my coffee and dessert—which, thankfully, isn’t a single berry but a panna cotta with a layer of berries at the top.
Finally, everyone’s done eating and drinking, and Marcus hands our waiter a credit card to cover the bill. A bill that has to be astronomical because most of the men have been ordering extra alcohol throughout dinner—brandy, whiskey, cognac—and I suspect they haven’t been getting the discount stuff.
As Marcus is signing the receipt, I glance at the entrance and spot Janie standing there with her boyfriend, Landon. He looks exactly as I remember: tall, blond, and handsome in a thin-lipped, country-club sort of way. Both he and Janie are staring at me open-mouthed—I’m guessing because of the company I’m with. Smiling, I wave to them, and Janie hesitantly smiles and waves
