Roxy's Story

  “Petit déjeuner. Fashionably late.”

  “Yes, of course. Anyway, I thought you might want to have lunch at the Café de Paris. Three’s a good time,” he said, glancing at his watch. He tilted his head to the side and added, “I did check with Norbert first to see if he had other designs on your time. He thought he would be free, but he’s tied up with business for the Principality. I mentioned that I’d be glad to step in where you were concerned. He did suggest that I might be being a little too pushy, and I should let you get acclimated to your new surroundings. I told him I didn’t think you were so old that you needed the time for such a thing. Was I wrong?”

  “Actually, I am getting hungry. Where is the Café de Paris?”

  “The one in Monaco is in Monte Carlo, right near the casino.” He sounded surprised that I didn’t know.

  “Oh, right. Well, let me throw something else on, perhaps.”

  “No, you’re fine like that.”

  “Then let me run a brush through my hair and put on some lipstick,” I said.

  “You’re fine like that,” he repeated. “At least, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Don’t you know that women look good for themselves first and for a man last?”

  He laughed. “Not the women I’ve met.”

  “Maybe you need to expand your acquaintances.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” he replied with an impish smile.

  As I walked out and up the stairs, I laughed to myself. Wasn’t I the little coquette? Before Mrs. Brittany, whenever I met a boy I was interested in or who was interested in me, I was crudely honest about my intentions. I was changing, and I liked the change. When I stood before the mirror and fixed my hair, I paused as a ripple of concern washed across my mind.

  Wasn’t this happening a little too quickly? Norbert brings him along, and then Norbert steps out of the picture. Mrs. Brittany was testing me for sure. Was she testing to see how quickly I would socialize? Was she testing to see if I would be careful? Or was this actually going to be my first foray into the field? Would she get a report from Norbert and Paul? Should I have been so eager to go with Paul? I had decided that I would always be a tougher critic of my behavior with men than Mrs. Brittany would be. Should I have played harder to get, turned him down but suggested perhaps another time? Was it too late to change my mind? How would that make me look?

  How conscious of my every action, every word, I had become. Did that make me careful or just plain neurotic? Whatever, I thought. If I’ve been tossed into the game, I’ll play it as best I can, and if I fail, I fail. Maybe it was a good idea to find out if I could do this, be a full-blown Brittany girl, sooner rather than later, not only for her but for myself. Why should either of us waste any more time?

  He was waiting for me at the base of the short stairway, looking up at me with such admiration in his eyes he made me feel like Venus descending.

  “You still look terrific to me,” he said.

  “I didn’t think I’d look worse after brushing out my hair and putting on some lipstick.”

  He laughed and held out his hand for mine. This time, I was being gripped with some interest. I looked back and saw Margery standing in the kitchen doorway staring at us.

  “Shall I prepare dinner tonight, Miss Wilcox?” she asked.

  “We’ll call you,” Paul answered for me. He looked to see what I would say or do about his answering for me so quickly.

  “I’ll call you if there is any change in my plans,” I told her, stressing “I’ll.”

  He nodded. “Pardon my enthusiasm, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Enthusiasm isn’t bad, but every woman surrounds herself with her own minefield. Be careful. First learn the terrain,” I warned with a small smile.

  He sucked in his breath and straightened up quickly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He started to raise his hand toward his forehead.

  “Don’t salute me, please, Paul. That’s the kiss of death.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  We stepped out.

  Paul had a gold Lamborghini.

  “Oh, you have the Murciélago,” I said.

  “You know what this is?” he asked, his voice full of genuine surprise.

  “Mais oui. Like all Lamborghinis, it’s named after a famous bull.”

  “You know cars?”

  “A little,” I said. Mrs. Brittany’s advice was to always be modest and always permit the man you were with to believe he knew more, even if he didn’t.

  “The male ego lacks vitamin C,” she’d said, half in jest. “It’s easily bruised.”

  The truth was, I did know a lot about cars. One of my requirements with Professor Marx was to learn about expensive automobiles. I actually knew the ten most expensive ones and could discuss their engines and their accessories. Most rich and powerful men loved their expensive toys and appreciated someone who could share their enthusiasm for them.

  Sometimes when Mrs. Brittany was trying to share her male-female wisdom with me, I would stop and think that a man, any man, was at quite a disadvantage when he was with one of her girls. There were so many contrivances, manipulations, all done subtly so that they weren’t aware of how under control they were.

  Paul looked at me and nodded.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You really are an amazing young woman.”

  “You mean you didn’t mean it before when you said it?”

  “Well, yes, but . . . what are you, nineteen?”

  Another Brittany quote came quickly to mind. “It isn’t the time you clock, it’s what you clock in the time you’ve had,” I told him.

  His eyes widened, and then he laughed. “Well said, well said. I think I’ll use that on my father when he lectures me about something and stresses how young and inexperienced I am.”

  “Be sure to give me credit.”

  After I got into the car, which was obviously brand-new, he asked me about the famous bull for which his car was named. “I mean, I know they do that when they name cars,” he said, “but I don’t know why one bull is more famous than another.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. Was he testing to see if I really knew anything? I said, “Murciélago was known for having survived twenty-eight sword strokes in a bullfight. The crowd called for his life to be spared, and the matador did just that.”

  “Have you been to a bullfight?”

  “No, but I’ve read about them, and I read Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon.” It had been one of the books on Professor Marx’s required reading list.

  “Really? I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t read it.”

  “Well, now, since you own a car named after a bull, maybe you will.”

  “I’ll buy it as soon as possible. And then maybe you and I can discuss it.”

  “Have you ever discussed a book with a woman?”

  He shook his head, smiling. “Hardly.”

  “Then it really will be a new experience.”

  “Yes.” He started his engine and patted the steering wheel. “Well, thanks to you, I’m even prouder of my vehicle now.”

  “Good, but you don’t have to survive twenty-eight accidents,” I said. He laughed and drove onto the Basse Corniche, which he explained was the lower highway that would take us to Monaco.

  “There are three main roads here: the Basse Corniche, the Moyenne Corniche, and the Grande Corniche. I like this route. It’s more scenic.”

  It was. The views of the sea were awesome. We went through a short tunnel cut out of a rock and cruised through the village of Èze-sur-Mer, where I saw fruit and vegetable kiosks at the side of the highway. It reminded me about how proud Mama was of the freshness of French food. I didn’t realize how quiet I had become when I thought about her, but once again, I realized that I was in France, closer to Mama’s family and where she was born than I had been for a long time.

  “You okay?” Paul asked, noting my long period of silence.

  “Oh, yes. Fi
ne. I’m just enjoying the scenery.”

  “So, woman of mystery, what will you tell me about yourself? I must have earned some information by now, don’t you think?”

  “I’m crazy about dark chocolate,” I said.

  “We’ll make sure you get some of the best Belgian chocolates today, then. You’re from New York?”

  “I was born there, but it’s up for grabs where I’m from,” I said.

  He shook his head. “This is really going to be a challenge.”

  “Would you have it any other way?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes, you would,” I retorted. “Like any man, you want everything to be easy when it comes to a woman.”

  “Oh, I do, do I? Where did you get all this experience, or should I say clock it?”

  “How many times do you have to put your finger on a hot stove before you realize you shouldn’t do it?”

  “Is that what you think a man is, a hot stove?”

  “No, not all. Some are cold soup.”

  “Well, that’s not always so bad. There’s gazpacho.”

  I smiled. Let him win his point, I could hear Mrs. Brittany whisper. If you continually frustrate and defeat the man you’re with, he won’t be with you long.

  “Touché,” I said.

  Despite how vague I was about myself, I could see he was feeling more relaxed with me. As we drove into Monaco and Monte Carlo, he pointed out various highlights, the palace and the museums. Once we turned up toward the world-famous casino, I was impressed with how pristine everything was. I tried not to be a bug-eyed tourist, but I had not been out of New York and America very much and only when I was much younger. I couldn’t help but be excited and struggled to keep from sounding unsophisticated. I didn’t want him to know anything about my past if I could help it.

  Everyone seemed to know him at the Café de Paris. He had what I assumed was his favorite table, off in a corner. Most of the clientele looked as successful and wealthy as he was. Everywhere I turned, women and men were in stylish clothes, bedecked with expensive jewelry, and exhibiting that joie de vivre that came with having no real worries. The music in this restaurant was laughter. Smiles glittered. Everyone was on his or her own stage, asking the rest of us to look at him or her and be envious.

  “You were right,” I said. “Three is a good time for lunch.”

  “Oh, it gets crowded when the cruise ships come in, but I knew there was none in today,” he told me as we were seated. “You like rosé wine?”

  “For lunch? Absolutely.”

  “Any favorites?”

  I looked at the wine list and chose a particular Côtes de Provence rosé I knew. Once again, he looked impressed. Was everything I did being checked off? I felt as if Nigel Whitehouse was sitting at the table to our right, watching my every move. Would I always feel that way, always think that someone from Mrs. Brittany’s world was looking over my shoulder, evaluating every gesture I made, every word I spoke?

  We ordered our food. Because I had mentioned Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon, our conversation centered on books and the theater. Just recently, Professor Marx had gotten me up to speed on the London theater scene. Paul was unaware of a particular playwright’s new production and was once again surprised at my knowledge.

  “How do you keep up with all this?”

  “Like anyone else, newspapers, television. That’s no mystery.”

  I turned the conversation to business, his company, cosmetics in general. He was surprised that I knew his company was on the New York Stock Exchange, but my father had been touting the stock to his clients for some time. We discussed what affected the rise and fall of some company stock value. I felt grateful to my father for his constant lectures about the economy at our dinner table, especially when I considered that economics was Paul’s major at the Sorbonne. I could almost feel his first good impressions of me growing stronger with every passing moment. It was like watching the mold of a beautiful statue harden with its eyes full of you.

  I looked around, nudged by my paranoia, which was rapidly becoming my new shadow, clinging to everything I said and did. I wasn’t nervous, however. In fact, I was surprised and pleased at how quickly my self-confidence was growing. If this was my first test in the field, I would ace it for sure.

  “So how do you know Mrs. Brittany?” he asked me as we finished our dessert. We were sharing a tiramisu.

  “A friend introduced me to her,” I said, thinking of Mr. Bob.

  “I never quite understood what she does, how she came into so much money. You should hear Norbert talk about her. He thinks the day practically starts and ends with her.”

  My alarms were sounding. If there was any question designed to test me, this was the chief one.

  “She’s his godmother,” I said.

  “Yes, I know all about her and her husband being related to him, but I had the impression they were poor royalty. That villa you’re in is worth more than eight million dollars.”

  I shrugged as if I had been in multimillion-dollar villas all my life. Besides, it was easy to see that a million dollars to the wealthy here was like a hundred dollars to the people back home.

  “Mrs. Brittany is an enterprising woman,” I said. “She enjoys her success and uses her wealth wisely.”

  “How?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How did she get this wealth?”

  I couldn’t imagine Norbert not telling him anything, but then again, perhaps he was as loyal to her as anyone who worked for her. Did he work for her, too? Did he send her clients from this world of wealth and glamour?

  Once again, I shrugged. “She’s an even bigger mystery than I am,” I replied, and he laughed.

  “Okay, we’ll go back to talking about me.”

  “Good idea.” I leaped on the opportunity. “Is your marriage really prearranged?”

  “That’s what my soon-to-be fiancée thinks.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m still thinking about it,” he said, but not very firmly.

  “Well, what is she like?”

  “She’s not unattractive, but I can guarantee she doesn’t know much about cars or books or theater. I know she’s not too informed about stocks and bonds, either.”

  “What do you talk about when you’re with her?”

  “Our families, her latest fashion purchases, hot new pop stars. She, unlike you, hasn’t clocked that much experience in the so-called real world. She’s attended a charm school and went to a liberal arts college, but I think she was, how shall I say it, helped along?”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “When our families get together, which is monthly these days.”

  “So when will you be formally engaged? If you agree, that is.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, starting to become visibly upset. “I changed my mind. Let’s talk about something else rather than me.”

  “Why will you do this if you’re not in love with her?” I pursued. I knew it was a no-no to make the man you were with feel uncomfortable about anything, but I was genuinely interested in him now, and it was still possible that he wasn’t part of any test of my new abilities.

  He studied me a moment, and then, after taking a breath, he said, “It’s more of a merger than a marriage. I could end up running the whole game. As you know, we’re an international company, just making inroads in Asia, in fact, and with her family business tied to ours . . . we’re talking huge numbers. And I would be the man in charge.”

  “Ambition, tragic hubris,” I said in a playful tone of warning, recalling my discussion of Macbeth with Professor Marx and the work Sheena and I had done with the play. We had read it aloud, with each of us playing multiple parts and enjoying our over-the-top acting. I thought I would make a very decent Lady Macbeth.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “All kidding aside, what are your interests? How come you’re here? How long will you be staying? Are you in school? Will you be going to scho
ol, college, maybe in Europe? Please. Tell me something about yourself, anything besides the chocolates you like.”

  I laughed. If I didn’t give him something, I thought, this might be the last time I would see him, and I did want to see him again.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be here yet,” I began. “I’ve been treated to a vacation. I’m interested in most things. No, I’m not in school at the moment. I’m in between. How’s that?”

  “I don’t know any more about you than I did before your answer,” he said.

  “Well, is this the last time we’ll see each other?”

  “Better not be.”

  “Okay. Then as time goes by, you’ll learn more about me.”

  He smiled. “What were you planning to do with the rest of your day?”

  “Nothing much. Maybe take a swim.”

  “Want company?”

  “I thought I had that,” I said.

  He signaled for the waiter. “L’addition,” he told him. “We can stop at a store just out here that carries the best chocolates in Monaco.”

  “I was just kidding. That’s not important.”

  “Okay. Then let me stop by my house and pick up a suit. That way, I can, as Norbert would say, impress you.”

  “Oh, not another mansion,” I said, and feigned a yawn, pretending to be bored with the idea. He laughed and paid for our lunch.

  His family home was above the Grande Corniche. It looked more like a castle, with its turrets and walls. When I said that, he told me it had been a castle.

  “It was my father’s dream to turn it into a livable modern home. It took nearly five years to redo and modernize with plumbing and electricity. There’s an elevator, too, not that either of my parents needs one.”

  “Are you an only child?”

  “My sister says she is,” he replied, smiling. “There’s just the two of us. She’s older and married and living in Switzerland. She’s one of those Greenpeace types, so my parents and she don’t see eye to eye on most things. Her marriage was a disaster as far as they’re concerned. They tolerate my brother-in-law, but they’re not fond of him. Consequently, my sister isn’t here much and has nothing to do with our family enterprise. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?” He waited to see if I would answer.