Roxy's Story

  Probably, I would please Papa after all, I thought with a mixture of anger and sadness.

  Mr. Whitehouse went on and on about different foods, ways to eat them, how to sit properly at the table, and, building on what I had said about toasting across the table, how not to reach for things. He stressed the importance of using my napkin, keeping my lips cleared of any food remnants. I was tempted to ask him if it would be all right to enjoy something or even to digest it, but I kept my mouth shut and listened, even though I knew a good deal about what he was saying. He made it clear that he would be at the dinner table tonight precisely to be watching to see what I had absorbed from this first lesson and what I had not.

  When lunch ended, I realized it was the first time I had sat and taken so long to eat a lunch, even at home.

  “We did a lot more here than is normal,” he explained, “but one thing you never want to do is eat too fast, rush through a lunch or a dinner like so many Americans do.”

  “Yes, that’s been one of my mother’s favorite comparisons between us and the French.”

  “Really? Did she happen to include the English with the Americans or the French?”

  “The Americans,” I said without hesitation. “Her favorite way to put it is that in America, we eat; in France, we dine.”

  He looked a little annoyed, but then he smiled. “You’ve been lucky. You’re a few kilometers ahead of most of the girls who come to me. I congratulate you,” he added with a slight bow of his head. “Now, how would you end this today?” he asked. Randy had returned to take some of our dishes and the empty bottle of wine. He paused to see what I was going to say.

  Again, I thought about Mama and the times when she and I had gone to lunch with one of her friends or one of the wives of the men Papa worked with at the firm.

  “Merci, Mr. Whitehouse. I enjoyed our lunch very much, and I hope we’ll soon have the opportunity to do it again.”

  He bowed his head in appreciation. “You make me feel like a vestigial organ,” he said.

  I raced through my vocabulary and smiled when I remembered what that meant: an organ that had lost its purpose, its function.

  “I’m sure that’s not true, Mr. Whitehouse. I’m confident that there is always something I can learn from someone like you.”

  He beamed with such pleasure that his cheeks took on a rosy tint and his eyes twinkled like a newborn baby’s. “Beauty, culture, charm, and diplomacy, too. Mrs. Brittany has indeed struck gold,” he said.

  He made me feel the best I had all day. I thanked him again and left.

  I had twenty minutes to refresh myself. I could either go up to my suite or take a very short walk outside. My next assignment was to go to the library. There was a two-and-a-half-hour block set aside for that, and I was looking forward to it even less than I had looked forward to swimming. I’d better get some fresh air, I told myself, so I wouldn’t pass out in a stuffy classroom setting, and I headed out one of the patio doors to feel the warmth of the sun and smell the newly cut lawns. I always liked that scent. It made me feel fresh and alive, which was why I went to Central Park every chance I had.

  I walked slowly, with my head down, until I remembered how Mrs. Pratt had chastised me for doing that and looking so insecure.

  It was then that I first saw her—the young girl who would change everything for me here.

  And maybe everything for me for the rest of my life.

  8

  She was walking toward the pool. She wore an ankle-length robe, and a maid was following her, carrying towels, a bucket with a bottle of something in it, and what looked like a book held tightly inside the crook of her right arm. For a moment, I thought the young woman was Portia, but then I saw that she was using a cane and limping as if her left leg was shorter than her right. Her shoulder-length black hair lay softly over the white robe. I stepped forward to get a better look at her when she reached the pool and the maid set down her things and helped her take off the robe. She wore a bikini and looked like she had a beautiful figure. The maid prepared one of the cushioned lounges for her, laying out the towels. She sat for a moment with her back to me before lying back and taking what looked like suntan lotion from the maid.

  It was still spring in New York, so I didn’t imagine the pool was warm enough, unless, of course, it was heated. There was, however, a cloudless sky, and the sun was strong. I guessed that the UV index was high, and I recalled the short lecture Olga had given me about the skin damage the sun could do. After the girl covered herself in sun protection, she lay back and opened her book. The maid opened a bottle of what looked like rosé wine and poured her a glass. She unwrapped some crackers and set them out with some cheese before leaving to head back to the house.

  I decided to walk over and see who she was. How come she hadn’t been introduced to me? Mrs. Pratt said that Camelia and Portia were the only other girls here. Was she one of Mrs. Brittany’s girls whom a client had hurt? Had Mrs. Brittany lied about that? Was that why she was not there to meet me and why her presence was being kept a big secret?

  She turned as I approached and put her book down.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello.”

  “The pool can’t be warm enough, can it?” I said.

  “Oh, it’s heated, but I don’t swim much, anyway,” she said, nodding toward her left leg.

  I looked. It was clear to see that it was a flesh-colored prosthetic. I smiled, hiding my surprise and shock, and looked at her book. “Oh, I know that book. My high school English teacher gave it to me for extra credit. I read it, but I never handed in the book report,” I said.

  She laughed. “You remember that?”

  “It was only last month,” I said.

  “Only last month? How old are you?”

  “Nearly eighteen. Actually, ten days away now.”

  Her smile brightened. “Oh, I love birthdays. Eighteen is a very special one, too.”

  “Yes, especially for me,” I said dryly.

  “You just get here?” she asked.

  “Yes. My first day, actually. I’m not halfway through with it yet. I hope I live through it.”

  “Oh, is it that bad?”

  “Tough, not bad,” I said, realizing that the place was probably bugged by people who would bring my comments back to Mrs. Brittany.

  “That’s good,” she said. I saw that what she was drinking was not rosé wine but some sort of carbonated juice. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Roxy, Roxy Wilcox,” I said.

  “You sound like you’re from the East Coast.”

  “Yes, New York City.”

  Before she could tell me her name or answer any questions I might have, I heard Mrs. Pratt shouting for me. She was beckoning vehemently, too.

  “Uh-oh. The drillmaster is calling,” I said.

  The girl laughed.

  I glanced back at her and smiled. “Maybe I’ll see you later,” I said, and hurried toward Mrs. Pratt.

  “What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

  “I thought I had some time to take a breather,” I said. I turned and nodded toward the pool. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’d just started talking to that girl when you called. Who is she? What happened to her leg?”

  “There will be plenty of beautiful days for you if you do what you are told,” she replied, ignoring my questions. “You should be going to the library. Professor Marx is waiting for you, and it’s very impolite to be late for a college professor. In fact, punctuality is very important to Mrs. Brittany. Our girls don’t keep their clients waiting a minute too long.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Just keep your head about you,” she insisted, “and concentrate on why you’re here.”

  Why was she suddenly so angry? I was sure everyone was giving me good marks so far.

  I glanced toward the pool again and then started back into the mansion.

  “Who is that out at the pool? Is she another one of Mrs. Brittany’s girls?
What happened to her leg?” I repeated.

  “I don’t see why any of that would matter to you. I warned you before. You don’t have time to socialize with anyone, and when you do, it will be part of your training, part of your evaluation.”

  “Even that?”

  “Yes, even that.” She looked toward the pool. “Now, forget about that girl, and go on to the library,” she said, then turned and left me looking out at the pool for a few more moments before I continued into the mansion. The girl was still looking after me. She waved, but I was afraid to wave back. Maybe there was a camera pointed at me, and Mrs. Pratt would claim I had defied her orders.

  When I arrived at the library, Professor Marx was seated at a table with books opened before him. He looked up with an expression of disapproval. I was familiar enough with that look from my teachers.

  “You’re nearly ten minutes late,” he said. “I don’t mean to be stern, but we have a lot to do in a short time.”

  “Why a short time?” I asked as I approached.

  “We don’t have a college semester is what I mean,” he said, his eyes wide with impatience. “Okay, please have a seat.” He nodded at the chair across from him. “This is my technique,” he continued before I settled on the chair. “I’m going to review current events and ask you questions. From your answers, I’ll know how much you know about the background of the situations, political, economic, artistic, and historical. On the basis of that, I’ll assign you things to read, and during the following days, I’ll review those things with you to see what you’ve absorbed and how well you could discuss any of the topics. How well we do here together is entirely up to you.”

  “That seems to be the mantra of this place,” I muttered. “Everything is up to me.”

  He had one of the most animated faces I had ever seen. All of his thoughts found expression in the movements in his mouth, his eyes, and the shifting muscles in his cheeks and jaw. It was clear that if something annoyed him, everything moved at once. He reminded me of a pinball machine, the thoughts rolling around and triggering brightness in his eyes, a groan in his throat, and a wavy motion in his lips.

  “Well, it’s as true here as it is anywhere,” he said. “What kind of a student have you been in school?”

  “The kind that visits most teachers in their nightmares,” I said dryly.

  The lines around his jaw deepened. He took a deep breath and blew air through his closed lips. “You won’t be giving me any nightmares,” he warned. “I can assure you of that. Let’s begin.”

  He opened the New York Times and started with the lead story. I sensed that Professor Marx expected me to be a complete airhead. However, despite my sullenness at breakfast and at dinner in my family’s house, I was unable to totally ignore my father’s commentaries on current events, especially whatever affected the economy. He was always very emotional about his beliefs. Mama was his perfect audience, of course, showing her own amazement at the things that amazed him and showing her pleasure at whatever pleased him. Sometimes she looked toward me, hoping I would join her chorus and please my father. More often than not, however, just to annoy him, I took the opposing point of view by deliberately asking the simplest questions about the most obvious things that might challenge his beliefs. I never showed any real emotion or allegiance to anything that he criticized, but my merely taking that side of the argument brought the blood to his face.

  In short, although I favored reading the rag newspapers and magazines more, the sort found at supermarket checkout counters, I wasn’t totally oblivious to what was happening in our country and in the world. As I replied to his questions, Professor Marx’s assumptions about me began to lose steam. He struck me as someone who didn’t like to be proven wrong about anything. To get me, he had to go deeper and deeper into an issue.

  My father, because of his work, favored a more laissez-faire approach to business. I understood that, and some of our hottest arguments were sparked by my concern for the less fortunate—the grunts, as his own father, the general, might call them, the foot soldiers, the noncommissioned officers, the enlisted men, who in my opinion did the most work and bore the most pain and responsibility.

  “If we lived and thought the way you do,” my father fumed at me, “we’d be out on the streets, too.”

  Well, I certainly could say to him now, “You were right. Where did I end up?”

  Once again, I thought it was ironic. My father would never dream that his frequent political lectures in our dining room would help prepare me to find success in this new life I was choosing for myself, a life I was certain he would despise.

  My biggest weaknesses were with the arts, theater, opera, even stage musicals. Professor Marx pounced on those areas, piling up the reading material for me. I had taken an art class in my sophomore year but failed. The teacher, Mrs. Faber, was one of those teachers who found the most attentive students early on and put all of their effort into teaching them. The rest of us could stay or leave as far as she was concerned—mentally, of course. I did my best daydreaming in her class, and now I was about to pay for it. The introduction to art textbook Professor Marx gave me was the thickest. I thought it weighed five pounds.

  He made it clear that I had to learn and be able to identify famous arias from great operas and be somewhat familiar with their plots. He wanted me to have a “decent knowledge of Broadway theater.”

  “You’ll come in here and listen to them during your free time.”

  “I have free time?” I asked.

  He ignored that. “Many of the men you will escort will be much older. They won’t be into hip-hop or Lady Gaga. They’ll be pleased if you know Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. Do you know anything about any of them?”

  “My father’s favorite in that group is Tony Bennett, but he listens to all of them. My mother loves Edith Piaf.”

  “Oh,” he said, taken aback. “Well, that’s good exposure.”

  “Do you know Patachou?” I asked.

  He bristled a bit. “I’m not here for you to interrogate,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I just thought you might know something about French music, since you seem to know Edith Piaf.”

  “Of course I know about French music, and I know about Edith Piaf. That’s not the point. The point is what you know and what you have to learn, not what I know and what I have to learn.”

  I hid my smile behind one of the books he had shoved my way.

  He then leaped across topics to deliberately make me feel inferior, I thought. He was on to geography, asking me questions like Alex Trebek on Jeopardy! There was no way I was going to do well identifying world rivers and capitals of countries other than the U.K., France, Germany, Russia, Spain, and Italy. I did remember Athens, but I was lost when it came to the Middle East and the Far East.

  Before what had become four times worse than any of the classes I hated at school ended, he tossed mathematical concepts at me. I was practically silent. Finally, even he had endured enough. Ten minutes before our time was up, he decided to end it with a deep sigh.

  “We’ll meet tomorrow, the same time—only on time, please.”

  “You don’t expect me to learn all this by then,” I said, indicating the pile of material he had shoved my way.

  “Not all of it, but enough to let me know you’re serious and I’m not wasting my time and Mrs. Brittany’s money,” he replied.

  “You won’t be,” I said, rising. Then I smiled at him. “You really ought to look up and listen to Patachou. My mother remembers her parents playing her records constantly when she lived in Paris. If you like Piaf, you’ll enjoy her.”

  He just stared at me. I nodded and left the library, struggling to carry everything he had assigned me to read. Just as I entered the hallway, however, Randy appeared and came rushing over.

  “Oh, you poor thing, turned into a beast of burden. Here, let me help you,” he said, taking the pile out of my arms. “I’ll bring this to your room. Where do
you go next?” he asked as we started toward the stairway.

  “I’m supposed to be at the salon in fifteen minutes. The only thing this place is missing is bells to signal the end of one class and the start of another,” I said, and he laughed. I followed him.

  “The first few days are always the hardest.” He paused to turn back to me. “With anything,” he added.

  “Was that the way it was for you?” I asked when we reached the top of the stairway.

  “Oh, yes, but for different reasons. When Mrs. Brittany found me, I had just broken up with someone. I had a shattered heart, but she knew how to help put me together again. That’s her real talent, you know,” he said in a whisper.

  “What’s her real talent?”

  “Matchmaking. That’s why she’s so successful at this escort business. She knows exactly which one of her girls will be most successful with this one or that one.”

  “If she’s so good at matchmaking, why didn’t she ever remarry?” I asked.

  “Oh,” he said, smiling, “I can’t imagine any one man with whom she would be satisfied for a long period of time. She’s too . . .”

  “Bossy?”

  “Let’s just say independent. It’s a kinder term,” he told me, and winked.

  We paused at my door, and I opened it. He brought in my books and magazines and put them on the vanity table.

  “This all right?”

  “No. I’d rather they were locked in the closet, but I have no choice,” I said. “That’s my homework. I thought I had escaped all that.”

  He laughed. “You never escape all that.” He looked around. “This is my favorite suite and I think Mrs. Brittany’s, too. She must think you have great potential if she’s favoring you. One thing she hates most of all is wasting her time. She has a wonderful head for business, as does Mrs. Pratt. Between the two of them, with the special inside information they get,” he added sotto voce, “they’ve built quite a little financial empire. She doesn’t have to work another day of her life, but that woman loves what she does. I think she believes she is a female Cupid or something, destined to provide opportunities for pleasure and happiness, even love, as I can attest to.”