Roxy's Story

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pratt,” Mrs. Brittany said, obviously dismissing her.

  Mrs. Pratt left, closing the door behind her.

  “You may sit,” Mrs. Brittany told me, nodding toward the sofa on which Mr. Bob sat.

  He smiled and nodded. “Quite a place, isn’t it?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you have any questions now?” Mrs. Brittany asked.

  “How many women do you employ?”

  “That’s not your concern. Ask me things that concern only you.”

  “I guess I would live here while doing what you call training?”

  “What do you call it? It’s an education, a refinement, a preparation. You’re bright enough to understand that much.”

  I was silent.

  “Yes, of course, you would live here. And you would be evaluated every moment you were here.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, if you meet the test, are ready to go out into the field, I’d place you in your own apartment. In the beginning I would line up your assignments, but I would hope that in time, you would become a request. We’d give you your name.”

  “My name?”

  “How you would be known when gentlemen called our service. I won’t give you that until I’m convinced that you’re ready.”

  “How long does that usually take? I know it depends on the candidate. By the way, is that a good word for girls like me?” I asked. “ ‘Candidate?’ ”

  She smiled. “Yes, très bien. Since you speak French, if you were still in question after six months, I would reconsider.”

  “Yes, and give me a kill fee. I was told.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “I don’t have to have sex with these men?”

  She closed her eyes and sighed before opening them again. “No, no, I already explained that. All of my clients understand that having sexual relations is a decision our girls make themselves.” She sat forward. “However, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that some of my girls hold on to very high-paying clients by granting sexual pleasure, but that is not a requirement or a service we advertise. Furthermore, if one of my girls got pregnant, that would be the end of her association with my organization. I won’t tolerate any such stupidity.”

  “I don’t blame you for that,” I said. “Nevertheless,” I insisted, “if one of your girls is doing it for money, then she’s a prostitute.”

  She tightened her lips and looked at me with laserlike intensity. “Even a geisha, a member of a long-standing traditional and cultural phenomenon in Japan, has sexual relations if she so desires, and no one would call her a prostitute, but I stress, and obviously have to repeat, it’s not part of the job description.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not saying I have a holier-than-thou attitude. I just wouldn’t like to think of myself that way.”

  “Nor should you.” She leaned forward again, her eyes narrow, intense. “Let me make something perfectly clear. None of my successful girls thinks ill of herself. On the contrary, they enjoy their lives, their pleasures, and their rewards and have a great deal of pride. They have great self-respect. If you should be lucky enough to reach that level, you’ll understand.”

  I could feel Mr. Bob watching my reactions. Mrs. Brittany sat back, her mouth twisting. My silence seemed to annoy her. I wasn’t pleading enough for her to keep me.

  “You can get up and walk out of here without any problem,” she said. “We’ll deliver you to whatever hole in the wall you’ve found, no questions asked. You can even keep that dress and those shoes, right, Bob?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “I’m just asking questions. You told me to ask them. I’m not saying I don’t want to do this,” I said.

  “I’d like to hear you say ‘I do,’ ” she replied. “With a convincing tone.”

  “Sounds like I’m getting married,” I quipped, looking at Bob for a smile, but he didn’t even blink. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, with all the firmness I could muster. “I do.”

  “Good. Now we have only one question to answer,” she said.

  “Which is?”

  “Will you do?”

  5

  Mrs. Brittany stared at me a moment. Then she smiled, nodded, and opened a desk drawer to produce a printed document.

  “I want you to read this and sign it. I ask everyone we’re considering to do so. The document is not legally binding in any court except the court I hold here, but I like certain things made very clear in black and white so that there are no misunderstandings.”

  She pushed the papers across her desk. I rose, picked them up, and began to read them. It certainly was written like a legal document. In return for the privilege of being trained to become a member of Mrs. Brittany’s enterprise, I had to agree to a number of rules and conditions. Nothing guaranteed that I would become a member. That was clearly stated, as were the conditions.

  I was never to smoke unless the man I was with smoked, and then only if he approved. If I was already a smoker, I was to stop immediately.

  I was never to do any drugs or ever drink too much or do anything to embarrass myself in public. I was to keep in mind that I always represented Mrs. Brittany.

  Except to Mrs. Brittany or someone she had approved, I was never to talk about anyone I had been with or what they did or what we did together.

  I was never to discuss Mrs. Brittany or the organization or speak about Mrs. Brittany’s residence and my training, and if I should be approved, never without her prior permission was I to reveal to anyone that I was an employee of her company.

  Pregnancy, even if I could have an abortion, was grounds for immediate dismissal.

  I was never to leave the country without permission or be unavailable for an assignment unless Mrs. Brittany had sufficient warning.

  I couldn’t change my hairstyle, my makeup, or the style of clothes I wore without first getting her approval, and I could go only to salons that she approved.

  I paused in my reading.

  “This sounds more like a form of slavery,” I said. She smiled at Mr. Bob, who also smiled. “I had more freedom living under my father’s iron hand.”

  “And you have the freedom to return to it,” Mrs. Brittany said.

  I glared back at her a moment and then returned to the document. Something occurred to me, and I looked up again. “I understand you want everything I do kept secret, but what if my picture is taken with one of these men and it appears in a magazine or a newspaper?”

  “Not likely,” Mrs. Brittany said. “Many of them will be married or engaged or men who do not want to be compromised in any way. If that should happen, you would always be listed as an unknown escort, anyway. You might see celebrities, but they will avoid being seen with you in public. It’s a requirement that they accept and cherish. We take great pains to protect our clients. You’ll see, if you get there. I especially don’t want my girls pursued by the paparazzi. Something like that could ruin them, and I have too much of an investment in every one of my girls to risk that. Understand?”

  I nodded and read on.

  The second page went into the training. The first thing mentioned was what Mrs. Pratt had told me: I was forbidden to have any sexual relationship with any member of Mrs. Brittany’s staff.

  I had to follow all instructions regarding my exercise and diet. Any resistance or insubordination would result in immediate termination. I was not to have any communication with anyone on the outside while I was here.

  There was also, as Mrs. Pratt had mentioned, a kill or termination fee. It was five thousand dollars.

  I looked up sharply when I read that. I could start and quit and get five thousand dollars?

  Mrs. Brittany smiled. It was as though she could read my mind.

  “The reason the termination fee is so high is, first, to ensure your discretion and, second, to give you a concept of how much more you will make should you complete your training and get placed in the f
ield.

  ”However,” she continued, “if you took that kill fee and then betrayed my confidences, there would be other consequences. I have many friends in high places. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint, we live in a world where it isn’t what you know so much as whom you know. Do you understand?”

  I looked at Mr. Bob. He was watching to see my reaction to that. It rang like a Mafia threat in my ears, but I just shrugged and said, “Of course,” and continued reading the dos and don’ts.

  One paragraph stated that in the event there were any legal issues involving me, the organization would provide an attorney. It would be decided afterward whether the costs were incurred because of something that was my fault. If so, the cost would come out of my commission, which was simply stated as fifteen percent the first year, rising five percent every subsequent year until I had reached fifty percent.

  “What’s the amount I get a percentage of?”

  She smiled. “Now, that’s your first good question, as far as I’m concerned. The amount will be based on how much in demand you become. I’ll decide the initial fee, depending on how I evaluate you at the start. It could be anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand.”

  “Each time?”

  “No, each hour.”

  I didn’t want to gasp or look astonished, but how could I not? There were men who would pay as much as ten thousand dollars an hour to be escorted by one of Mrs. Brittany’s women? The full meaning of all this was settling into my brain like a stone in quicksand. An hour? The cash register in my imagination began to purr.

  “How often would I work?”

  “Again, that will be up to how much in demand you become, but at the start, my girls usually work five or so times a month.”

  I quickly did the math. My brain spun with the possibilities. I could become a wealthy woman in a relatively short span of time.

  “There’s one other thing that’s not written there,” Mrs. Brittany said, nodding toward the papers.

  “And what’s that? I donate a pint of blood a week or something?”

  She smiled. Mr. Bob chuckled.

  “Not quite. We take nothing from your body. Only your soul,” she said, seemingly half in jest. “On occasion,” she continued, “I get requests from very important female CEOs and the like, especially celebrities. They like being accompanied by an attractive female or merely sharing her company privately. Is that something you absolutely cannot see yourself doing?”

  I glanced again at Mr. Bob. The expression on his face told me it was important not to refuse.

  I shrugged. “I’ve always liked boys better, but whatever,” I said.

  She didn’t laugh or smile. “Don’t make the mistake of treating any of this too casually, Roxy. Indifference usually leads to self-destruction,” she warned.

  “I’m not indifferent. Nothing here intimidates me. That’s all.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything else you want to add?” I asked.

  “Nothing else for now.”

  There was a place for me to sign at the bottom of the second sheet. Mrs. Brittany’s signature was already there. I nodded to myself. It did feel as if I was making a deal with the devil, but just like anyone who did, I felt I had been tempted into it by the devil’s knowing where and what my weaknesses were. I put the papers down, reached for the pen on her desk, and signed. She took it and dated it.

  “Very good,” she said. “I hope the next time we do something this formal will be when I welcome you into the company.”

  “What will that be, an initiation ceremony with animals sacrificed or something?”

  She shook her head and looked at Mr. Bob. “She’ll either rise quickly to the top or sink quickly to the bottom,” she told him.

  He nodded and smiled at me. “I think she’ll rise to the top.”

  “Um,” Mrs. Brittany said through tight lips.

  She picked up her phone to call Mrs. Pratt, who again seemed to have been waiting just outside the door.

  “Please show our new”—she looked up at me and smiled—“candidate to her suite.”

  “I’m staying here now, tonight?”

  “Is there any reason for you to go back to your whatever tonight? If there’s anything of value there, tell Bob, and he’ll see after it.”

  “No, there’s nothing of value,” I said, “but these are the only clothes I have, and . . .”

  “Please,” she said, holding up her hand, palm toward me. “Don’t insult me. You will have all that you need for tonight and for your time here. Periodically, I will take you on shopping trips, and we’ll begin your wardrobe as I become more confident that you will, shall we say, graduate. Everything else you need will be in your suite. I think it’s important that you get a good night’s rest. I believe in getting a new girl right into things. Time, as they say, is money, and for us, that’s really true, isn’t it, Bob?”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Bob said. He was beaming. I guessed whatever finder’s fee he expected, he would get, but then I wondered if he had to give it back if I failed or if he would get more if I succeeded.

  “Give her the scarlet suite, Mrs. Pratt. It has the best view. I think our new candidate needs to improve her view of everything.”

  “Yes, madam,” Mrs. Pratt said. She stood waiting for me.

  I turned to leave.

  “Hold up,” Mr. Bob said, gently seizing my right arm. “You have something of mine left with someone. I should know who that is so that I can retrieve it. You’ll have to call to let them know.” He looked at Mrs. Brittany when she groaned.

  “You didn’t do that silly thing again with your license, did you?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “I thought it was necessary. She had her skepticism, and I thought she was worth it.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” I told him, and took his license out of my purse. “I had no one to trust with it and thought you were worth taking a chance on.”

  “Well, there. You see?” Mrs. Brittany said. “You do have a trusting way about you, after all, Bob.”

  He smiled and put his license back into his wallet. “I like this girl,” he said. “She’s got guts.”

  “We’ll see,” Mrs. Brittany said. “It takes more than just guts.” She nodded at me, and I followed Mrs. Pratt out of the office.

  “This way,” Mrs. Pratt told me in the hallway. We returned to the foyer and started up the magnificent stairway. “You’ll be woken at six-thirty for breakfast,” she began as we walked. “I’ll lay out what you are to wear tomorrow. Everything is in your closet.”

  “Six-thirty?”

  She paused and looked back at me. “There’s not enough time in the day to do all you have to do as it is.”

  “Well, it’s no good if I’m not awake.”

  “Oh, you’ll be awake,” she assured me.

  The second floor was just as elaborate as the floor below. Again, there were paintings on every wall, beautiful lamps and statuary in niches, and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

  “These are the guest suites,” she continued, nodding at closed doors. “Currently, only Camelia and Portia are in residence.” She paused at the third door on the right. “Mrs. Brittany frowns on our girls partying in any of the suites. You can fraternize if you’re taking a lesson together with someone, but it’s better when you retire for the evening that you get your rest.”

  “This sounds more like boot camp every minute,” I muttered.

  She smiled. “Yes, but the boots you wear here are Gucci.”

  Finally, I had something to laugh about. Maybe she wasn’t as hard and cold as I first thought. She opened the door, and I nearly gasped with surprise and delight.

  The suite was easily three times the size of Mama and Papa’s bedroom. There was a king-size bed with a scarlet canopy and oversize pillows, all the bedding a lighter shade of scarlet. The bed was so high that there was a footstool beside it. The walls were also a lighter shade of scarlet, as were the curtains
. All the furniture—the bed frame, the dressers, the night tables and vanity table—was made from a cherry wood whose rich color I had never seen. And there was a fluffy white area rug. The rest of the floor was a continuation of the hardwood floor in the hallway.

  Two large windows were evenly spaced, each on one side of the headboard. The curtains were drawn closed at the moment. Mrs. Pratt entered and put the light on in the en suite bathroom. I walked in and looked at it. The bathroom was easily as big as my bedroom at home. It had a double-size shower stall, a Jacuzzi tub, two sinks, a bidet in addition to a toilet, cabinets, and wall mirrors everywhere. A professional scale stood beside the sink on the right. The bathroom was done in a swirling pink tile. There was a wall telephone and even a small television on the wall so that someone soaking in a bath could watch something.

  Mrs. Pratt turned without comment and crossed the bedroom to the walk-in closet. She flipped another light switch. I saw clothes on the racks.

  “What’s all that?”

  “For now, you have what we call the basics, some blouses and slacks and a proper dress for an informal dinner.”

  “What about size?”

  “There’s a variety in here, but you’ll surely find something that fits well. We had a little warning about you.”

  “What warning? You mean since the time Mr. Bob bought me this dress, shoes, and purse, these things were bought?”

  “Something like that,” she said, smiling. “You needn’t be concerned with how fast Mrs. Brittany can get things done. She gets them done fast enough to satisfy her requirements. There are running shoes and some flats here that should also fit you. In these drawers,” she said, opening one of the drawers in the built-in dresser, “you’ll find panties, three styles of bras, and a sports bra, plus socks, belts, and handkerchiefs. All silk, of course. Lance Martin will have your bathing suit for you.”