I was a typical writer preoccupied with my work and oblivious of mundane details such as paying the bills and planning for a secure future.
My wife, Faith, was exasperated by my free spending ways and finally laid down the law—I had to talk to a banker about our finances or I’d be working out a separation agreement with a lawyer.
So, that’s how I found myself sitting in the downtown Toronto office of The Royal Bank talking to a specialist in investment planning.
The planner was a beautiful woman named Vanity Hall and as her name suggested, she was expert at managing assets.
“You’re wife is right, Jay—you’ve made a ton of dough, but you’re all over the map in your investments. I don’t see any strategy here at all—and certainly nothing that would secure your future.”
Vanity folded her shapely legs, tilting them to one side, and combed her perfectly manicured talons through her silky blonde hair.
There’s something sensual about grooming rituals, subliminal or not—and something fascinating about impossibly long red nails.
Come to think of it, everything about her was fragile and brittle—stilettos and lipstick-red nails. She was a slender, porcelain ballerina pirouetting on a pin.
Now, she was staring intently at me, fixing me with her enormous dark eyes. “You’re lost aren’t you?”
I was truthfully. I was totally captivated by her beauty and intoxicated by the sweet scent of her perfume. My feelings were on a runaway train and I was watching it leave the station.
“I call this lipstick and high heel syndrome,” she chuckled softly. “It’s similar to white coat effect, when you’re in the doctor’s office having your blood pressure checked. Financial planning can be stressful.”
She was right. I would hate to have my blood pressure checked right now. It was caused by lipstick and high heels all right, but had nothing to do with the state of Bay Street.
“Are you finding it hard to concentrate?” she asked.
I blushed, thinking she read my thoughts, but before I could make some lame excuse, she went on, “Board rooms are ‘bored’ rooms, as they say, and somehow stuffy surroundings aren’t congenial to a relaxed perspective.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost noon—why don’t we get out of here and continue our conversation over lunch?”
I had dreaded spending my morning being immersed in figures of the digital type—and certainly did not anticipate being distracted by Vanity’s physical assets.
My heart began racing and I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears. “Sure—why not?”
I said it with feigned indifference, but had to clench my hands to conceal the trembling.
“I’ll clear up a few details here and meet you at Coro’s in about fifteen minutes. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
There was a gleam in her eye. “Order me cab sav and fettuccine alfredo.”
“No salad?” I croaked.
“Do I look like I need to eat salad?” she grinned mischievously.
“No,” I grinned back, “definitely not.”
In a matter of moments I had gone from staring at a gloomy picture of my future to planning a lunch date with an exciting and glamorous woman.
I was vulnerable as a man building a house of straw without fire insurance—and even more reckless, because now I was playing with matches.
And even then I knew this would turn out badly.
