Roxy''s Story

  “I understand.” I pressed my lips together and then in my defense quickly added, “I just meant, I know what it is like to feel abandoned.”

  “Please, there is no comparison. You are a healthy young woman.”

  I nodded. “Sorry.”

  She didn’t change expression. “This is a great deal more information than I intended to give you, to give any of my girls, but as I said, Sheena saw something in you today that she liked, and goodness knows, I want that child to have some pleasure in her life.

  “So, tread softly here,” she continued, her eyelids narrowing with threat again. “Be careful about what sorts of things you tell her. She’s been very protected and is therefore very vulnerable. Do you get my point?” she asked sternly. “Or do I have to make it even clearer?”

  “It’s not necessary. I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Brittany. I’m not someone from the gutter. I admit I have been rebellious and defiant, but I’ve never really gotten into serious drugs or some other things some of my so-called well-behaved classmates have gotten into, including pregnancies kept hush-hush. The truth is, they always bored me with their ideas of what was exciting and what wasn’t. I wasn’t going to end up in any group therapy,” I said.

  She nearly smiled. “Yes, you were always a mile or so above them, I imagine. It’s what I see in you. Don’t prove me wrong,” she said, with the lead weight of a heavy threat coating the words.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “We all have good intentions,” she muttered, and went to her office bathroom.

  She kept the door open, and I watched her fix her lipstick and smooth some of her makeup on her cheek.

  “It’s time to go to dinner,” she told me when she stepped out. “Don’t slouch,” she ordered when I stood up. “You do that when you feel nervous or insecure. You might as well announce it. The men you will be with want to see self-confidence in their escorts.”

  I straightened up.

  “When you look at someone, look directly into their eyes,” she continued. “Pull your shoulders back, and hold yourself as if you were a member of royalty. Men like that especially, even though they claim to be more comfortable with an airhead. That’s good for a ten-minute ride but not for the ride we give our clients. Men of distinction, wealth, and stature like to know the women they are with will give them a full ride for their money, and it’s significant money. Besides, it keeps them on their toes, challenges them, and makes them more competitive, and we all do better when we’re competitive, comprenez, ma chère?”

  “Mais oui, madame. I am ready to compete. Even with you,” I said.

  “Touché,” she said.

  We left her office.

  “Now for the business at hand,” she continued. “You are going to meet a man who is ridiculously wealthy. And too often ridiculous as well. You’ve heard the expression, ‘He was born on third base but thought he had hit a triple’?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard my father use it about some of his clients,” I said.

  “Well, Decker Farmingham was born on home plate and thought he had hit a grand slam. At the age of forty-one, he inherited seven hundred and fifty million dollars, much of it held in foreign banks. He’s invested in everything from commodities to precious metals to private security forces. His father left a cadre of brilliant financial managers at his disposal, and his net worth is now off the charts. He has so many shell companies that it’s impossible to determine how wealthy he really is. Somehow he’s been able to remain outside the sweep of the Fortune Five Hundred. He’s under the radar, as they say.”

  She looked to see if I was following her, and I nodded.

  “He’s like one of the medieval kings who married for either political or economic reasons and, of course, to have progeny. He’s fifty-two now and has three sons in various executive positions in his businesses. You will never meet anyone who has been to more places, met more powerful people, and lived in more beautiful homes.”

  She paused to stress what she was going to say next.

  “And who’s been with more beautiful women. He is my only business partner, a silent partner but a partner. When he’s available and I have a new girl to consider, such as yourself, I invite him to meet her. However, I wouldn’t tolerate anyone having veto power over any of my decisions. I do respect his opinions occasionally, and we’re very fond of each other, despite his obscene wealth,” she said with a small impish smile.

  Moments later, we entered the formal dining room. It was the grandest room I had ever been in. Now that I saw it, I realized how ridiculous it was for me to think the classroom dining room was the main dining room. This was probably four times the size, with very large works of art on the walls and two enormous teardrop chandeliers over the long table that could definitely seat twenty-five or more people. There was a large red and black oval rug beneath and around it. On both sides of the room were beautiful matching armoires filled with dishware, glasses, and cups. Both sides also had tall windows with black velvet drapes. Portia and Mr. Whitehouse were on one side, and Mrs. Brittany’s guest, Decker Farmingham, was seated on the other. The place at the head of the table was obviously reserved for Mrs. Brittany.

  “You’ll sit next to Decker,” Mrs. Brittany told me as we approached.

  The men stood. With a wide smile on his face, Randy stood off to the right, dressed in a tuxedo, watching us enter. He winked at me.

  “May I say you look more beautiful than ever,” Decker Farmingham told Mrs. Brittany.

  “You may say it, Decker, but no one with half a brain would believe it. I know what’s lost when we age,” she replied, and he laughed. His eyes were on me. “This is our newest potential Brittany girl,” she continued, “Roxy Wilcox. Roxy, this is Decker Farmingham.”

  He held out his hand for mine. He wasn’t a particularly good-looking man. I thought his nose too long and his mouth too soft for a man. He had rather ordinary brown eyes and thick, styled dark-brown hair with just a touch of gray around his ears. The gray looked suspiciously dyed, something a man might do to appear older, wiser. I didn’t think he was quite six feet tall. He was chubby-faced, with a little too much of a paunch. I recognized that he was wearing an Armani suit. Two rings glittered on his left hand, one a diamond pinkie ring and another that was probably a wedding band, also with tiny diamonds.

  When I gave him my hand, he held it in his soft fingers and stared at me for so long before speaking that I was sure any other girl I knew would either giggle or turn and run.

  “Don’t memorize every cell in her body,” Mrs. Brittany said.

  He laughed but held on to my hand when he turned to her. “I think our Mr. Bob is a pure genius,” he said, and then smiled at me. “Pleased to meet you, Roxy.”

  “Enchanté,” I said. I glanced at Mr. Whitehouse. He took on the look of a proud father, nodding at Mrs. Brittany to be sure he received some credit for my social etiquette. She ignored him and sat.

  Mr. Farmingham pulled out my chair for me.

  “Merci,” I said.

  “Well, well, well,” Mr. Farmingham said, taking his seat. He looked at Mrs. Brittany. “Looks like you’ve borrowed a page from Nabokov. Might be a good idea.”

  He turned to me and smiled to see if I understood or appreciated his cleverness.

  “I’m hardly Lolita,” I said, and Mrs. Brittany laughed heartily. “At least, at the beginning of the novel.”

  “There’s a bit of fresh honesty,” she said.

  Mr. Farmingham took on a shade of crimson. “Well, she doesn’t look much older. I thought you were trying for that. Lolita is a popular male fantasy, you know,” he told me. “I admit to having it myself.”

  I looked at Portia. She was staring with interest and amusement. I had the sense that she had gone through some similar initiation ceremony.

  Randy came around to set my napkin on my lap. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. I smiled and gave him a slight nod before turning to Decker.

  “Yes, I
know about that male fantasy, Mr. Farmingham. I often saw that fantasy working in the eyes of some of my high school teachers and even some of my father’s friends. Let me say this about it. I am confident that I can be whatever Mrs. Brittany wants me to be.”

  He nodded, impressed. Portia widened her smile. Nigel Whitehouse looked a little overwhelmed.

  “You have no reservations about fulfilling such fantasies?” Mr. Farmingham asked.

  “Not really. It’s a bit like being Cinderella, don’t you think?”

  “It doesn’t always end at midnight, and you’re not always with a prince,” he countered.

  I shrugged. “The point is, it ends,” I said.

  “Well said,” he said. “I must admit that you women are a total mystery to me. The ones I think are simple turn out complicated, and the ones I expect to be complicated turn out to be simple.”

  “Maybe you should not go by first impressions,” I told him.

  “Well, now it seems I’m getting advice from Lolita.”

  “You asked for it,” Mrs. Brittany said. She turned to Randy and nodded. The dinner service began. Two maids brought out our salads, and Randy opened the first bottle of white wine.

  “I love what Claudine did with your hair,” Portia said.

  “Thank you. So do I. She had a lot to repair,” I added, looking to Mrs. Brittany. If something I said pleased her, I saw it in her eyes first, and sometimes only there. Right now, she was keeping back any reactions to anything. What self-control, I thought. What power. Suddenly, I wanted to be just like her.

  Randy came over to me with the opened bottle of wine. Apparently, Mr. Whitehouse wanted to show off my wine-tasting skills and had already arranged for me to be the one served first to do the tasting. He was probably taking credit for it, but I didn’t care.

  “Go on,” Mrs. Brittany said when I hesitated.

  Mr. Farmingham folded his arms across his chest and sat back to watch. I went through it just as I had done with Mr. Whitehouse at lunch. And then I surprised them all.

  “I think this is a bit too woody,” I said.

  Mr. Whitehouse looked shocked. Portia glanced quickly at Mrs. Brittany for her reaction, but Mr. Farmingham sat forward and lifted his glass for Randy.

  He tasted it, thought a moment, and nodded. “She’s right,” he said. “Bring another bottle, Randy, from another case, please.”

  “Right away, Mr. Farmingham.”

  “It happens sometimes,” Mr. Farmingham said.

  I looked at Mrs. Brittany, too. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t seem angry. She looked more thoughtful now. Then she turned sharply to Mr. Whitehouse.

  He raised his hands. “I can’t take full credit. She knew a lot more about wine than most girls I’ve tutored,” he confessed. “Her mother . . .”

  “I’m not criticizing her, Nigel. I wanted to hear your reaction. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, so far, quite impressed has been my reaction,” he said, looking at me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitehouse,” I said.

  “Well, now,” Mr. Farmingham said, turning to me. “You should know that I own a few vineyards in France.”

  “Really? Où sont-ils?”

  “Two in Bordeaux and one in Bergerac. Have you been to those regions?”

  “No, only to Paris when I was much younger.”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll give you a personal guided tour.”

  “I’ve been to your vineyard in Bergerac,” Portia said.

  He looked at her and smiled. “I heard. I was told after the fact, or I might have joined you and your company. Since I knew him, I should have—”

  Mrs. Brittany cleared her throat specifically to end that discussion. Decker looked at her and sat back. I was impressed with the great care taken to hide the names of any client and any other details.

  Randy hurried in with a new bottle of white wine. Everyone waited as he uncorked it and poured it into a new glass for me.

  I tasted it the proper way, deliberately taking my time, and then nodded. “Much better, merci.”

  He poured Mr. Farmingham a new glass, and he had the same reaction.

  “Well, with such a display of beauty and talent, I’d say you were on your way to becoming a Brittany girl.”

  “On her way,” Mrs. Brittany said, fixing her eyes on me, “but not yet there.”

  “Of course. You can lose someone potentially very valuable by putting her out too soon. The same is true for a good racehorse, Roxy.”

  “Well, I’ve been compared to lots of things, Mr. Farmingham, but this is the first time I’ve been compared to a horse.”

  Portia and Mr. Whitehouse held their breath because I didn’t sound amused.

  “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Farmingham, Roxy. He’s been around animals too long,” Mrs. Brittany said.

  “Maybe because he’s in high finance,” I suggested, thinking about how my father described some of his clients.

  There was a thick moment or two of silence, and then Decker Farmingham roared.

  “I like this girl!” he cried. He pulled back and turned fully to me. “I’ll give you my test. If you could take nine hundred thousand euros or a million dollars tonight, which would you take?”

  I saw Portia smile. She was confident that I would not know the answer, but she did not know my father was in finance.

  “With the exchange rate as it is right now, I’d take euros, of course, but I wish you would have offered Norwegian kroner as well.”

  His eyes widened. He turned to Mrs. Brittany. “How about I have a first go at this and take her to Nilo da Fonseca’s party in Rio in July?”

  “She won’t be ready that soon,” Mrs. Brittany said.

  “Oh, I—”

  “You just made the point with racehorses, Decker. You don’t want to do anything prematurely, do you?” she asked, her eyes like cold steel. “I think I know best when one of my girls is ready and when she is not.”

  He nodded and put up his hands. “Who am I to challenge success?” he said. “Well, do keep me in mind when she is ready.” He smiled at me, and we all began to eat our salad.

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, watching every bite I took, how I used my dinnerware, sipped my wine, used my napkin, and waited to swallow what I had in my mouth before I spoke. Before the main course was to be served, Randy brought out a bottle of red wine. I was surprised but happy to see that it was a familiar California pinot noir. My father used to tease my mother, comparing it to some of the better French pinot grapes in Burgundy. A California wine had won a major tasting contest against some of the best French wines, in fact.

  Once again, I was given the task of approving the wine. It was as good as I recalled, and I said so. The main dish was a pork tenderloin with a reduction sauce. It was better than any I had eaten at home or at the finer restaurants Papa occasionally took us to in New York. Everyone thought it was delicious, and Gordon Leceister, Mrs. Brittany’s chef, was brought out to be congratulated. Mr. Farmingham threatened to steal him away.

  “I’ll pay you twice as much as she pays you,” he told him.

  Mrs. Brittany sat silently, looking forward.

  Gordon glanced at her and smiled. “Yes, but I hardly have time to spend the money I make here,” he said.

  “You practiced that response,” Decker Farmingham accused, pointing his forefinger. He turned to me. “What do you think, Roxy? Doesn’t it sound like they prepared for me? Rehearsed every answer?”

  This was surely my lucky day. My mother’s favorite movie was Casablanca, probably because of all the French background and material in it. We had watched it together at least a dozen times. My father thought it was too soapy and romantic and usually read or left the room.

  “I think he stole Sam the piano player’s line from Casablanca,” I said. “You know, when Signor Ferrari tries to steal him away from Rick’s Café.”

  No one spoke.

  Decker Farmingham stared at me a moment and then nodded. “S
he’s right,” he said. “I remember that now. If you don’t make it here, Roxy, you’ll come work for me in one capacity or another.”

  “If she doesn’t make it here, you’ll forget you ever met her, Decker,” Mrs. Brittany said between clenched teeth. “It would be wrong to suggest anything otherwise and build her hopes.” Her angry reaction almost shook the chandeliers above us.

  He took one look at her and raised his pudgy hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!” he cried. “Of course. Don’t send me to the gallows just yet.”

  Portia and Mr. Whitehouse laughed, hoping to lift the heavy cloud off our discussion, but the look Mrs. Brittany gave me frightened me. Somehow I had displeased her by being too perfect at the dinner table. She had been upset with me before we entered the dining room. I understood that she still wasn’t happy that her granddaughter wanted to pal around with me. Now this had happened.

  I began to wonder if I would last another day, and I began to consider what I would do with the five-thousand-dollar kill fee. I would have to wait a few more days for my eighteenth birthday, but after that, I wouldn’t have to come up with lies and excuses for why I was on my own. I’d have enough money to buy some decent clothes and go somewhere to start anew, maybe some college town where I could learn to work in a restaurant and perhaps take some GED courses and get my high school diploma. No matter what happened here, I told myself, I was determined that I was still going to be better off than I was two minutes before Mr. Bob looked across that restaurant and feasted his eyes on me.

  After dinner, everyone but me was to go to the living room to have an after-dinner cordial. I was sent up to my suite to do some of the reading Professor Marx had assigned. Because of the little tiff at the dinner table between him and Mrs. Brittany, Mr. Farmingham said as formal a good-bye to me as he could manage, but I thought I saw him wink before he turned away. I was sure I would be a topic of conversation.