Roxy''s Story

  “Everything is an experience,” Mrs. Brittany once told me. “Treat it all that way. Feeling sorry for yourself after a distasteful or disappointing experience only blinds you to what lessons there are and how you can benefit.”

  Now was the time to take her advice, I thought. Maybe I wasn’t just discovering things about Paul and Mrs. Brittany and everything and everyone else around me. Maybe I was discovering more about myself. What was I made of, fragile and delicate little feelings that crackled and popped or feelings covered with thick, strong skin that helped open my eyes more and trained me to confront any problem courageously?

  How many times after I had left home did I stop to feel sorry for myself? Each time I was tempted to surrender, to go crawling back. If I had done that, what would have become of me? I could hear the derision in Mrs. Brittany’s voice. So you think you’re being tested? Poor girl. If you think this is a test, wait until you’re really out there. I was so angry at myself the more I thought about it that I nearly stomped out of my room and ripped off the banister as I descended the stairway.

  Paul was out on the patio having some wine. I paused to look at him, unseen. He had freely admitted that he was committed or was in the process of being committed to another woman, primarily for business reasons. Would he toss that aside for someone like me, someone who had nothing but herself to offer? Was it the musings of a romantic teenage girl even to think of such a thing? If I had learned anything while being with Mrs. Brittany, it should be that such idyllic romance occurs only in movies. She was probably right. He would try to keep us both, with me on the side, the famous mistress French men were expected to possess, and his respectable, wealthy wife on his arm in public. I liked him. He was good-looking and sexy. I wasn’t going to toss him off so quickly.

  I considered the implication Mrs. Brittany had made that he would want me for a mistress. Why should such a possibility bother me, someone who was preparing herself for a life, at least in her youth, to be just that sort of woman for many wealthy and powerful men? If it did bother me that much, I certainly wasn’t capable of being a Brittany girl, was I?

  No, if he should ever propose such a relationship, I would smile and say, “Take a ticket.” The idea brought a ripple of silent laughter across my lips. Go play the game, Roxy Wilcox, I whispered to myself. Take the test, and prove yourself to yourself first and Mrs. Brittany last.

  Paul turned and saw me staring at him. He smiled and lifted an empty wineglass.

  “Yes, please,” I said, coming out onto the patio.

  He poured me a glass and handed it to me. “Well, I didn’t think it was possible,” he said.

  “What was possible?”

  “For you to look more beautiful than you did before. The truth is, you look more and more beautiful each time I see you.”

  “Maybe you simply underestimated me,” I said, and sipped my wine.

  He laughed. “Compliments bounce off you the way rain bounces off an umbrella.”

  “Don’t stop them coming, anyway. I don’t mind being in the rain.”

  “Oh, I won’t. Don’t worry about that. Hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, we’ll go after we finish our wine. I’ve called Norbert, by the way. He sounded relieved.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think his partner was complaining about him not spending enough time with him. Looks like I came onto the scene just in time to save his relationship. And maybe,” he added softly, “to start one of my own.”

  I didn’t say anything. I walked to the railing and looked out at the sea. Someone was being pulled on water skis and doing well. Farther out, a rather large yacht was making its way toward Monaco.

  “Is that your parents?”

  “No,” he said. “We don’t have one quite that ostentatious. That has a helicopter on it. I believe it belongs to a prince from Saudi Arabia. He usually comes this way about now.”

  He stepped up beside me.

  “I can’t help feeling that when I say something or do something to bring me closer to you, you step back.”

  I turned and looked into his eyes. “What’s your favorite gelato?” I asked him.

  “Gelato? Boring to others, plain vanilla. But with a little chocolate on top. Why? What does that have to do with what I just said?”

  “Don’t you hate rushing it and hate it when you come to that final bite or lick?”

  “So we’re still walking?”

  “Still walking,” I said, and finished my wine.

  He finished his, and we started out.

  Margery stepped out of the kitchen. “Anything you need, Miss Wilcox?”

  “Not at the moment, Margery,” I said. “Merci.”

  She stood there watching us leave. I wondered if she was a lot more than just a housekeeper and cook here. Maybe she was another spy for Mrs. Brittany. I couldn’t resent her if she was. She and her husband probably were paid well and were comfortable. Why should she risk any of that for me?

  Paul’s restaurant in Beaulieu was delightful. The food was delicious, and like the people at the Café de Paris, everyone, especially the owners, knew him well. We sat at his favorite table in a corner by a window. The room was small but elegantly decorated. I liked the intimacy of it.

  Maybe it was the excellent wine and the comfort of really good food, but I found myself becoming less defensive as the evening continued. Paul talked about his youth and his relationship with his sister before she became so distant from the family. I think he was being more open and revealing in the hope that I would reciprocate and tell him real things about myself.

  However, hovering close to me the whole time was Mrs. Brittany’s admonition not to do anything to destroy the mystery. I was tempted to tell him all about myself, nevertheless, as he prodded and pleaded.

  “I want to know more about you. You fascinate me, Roxy. I feel at such a disadvantage.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be so fascinating if you knew more about me,” I said, half in jest. “I’m here. I’m who I am right now. Why change that?”

  “But I don’t know who you are right now.”

  “Sure you do. You keep telling me. I’m bright, beautiful, fascinating. Think of me as someone with whom you have fallen in love on the movie screen. You don’t want to know anything that would stain that image, do you? Who wants his goddesses to have feet of clay?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “You are amazing.” He leaned over to kiss me. Then, in a voice that vibrated with some fear and nervousness for the first time, he asked, “Will you spend the night with me in my family castle?”

  “Family castle? Are you going to be my prince if I do?”

  “I’d be anything for you.”

  Except a husband, I thought, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to be with him.

  I didn’t have to say yes. He saw it in my eyes and asked for our check.

  He was mostly silent on our way to his home. I sat close to him. I think he was afraid that if he talked too much, he might break the magic spell. I know I felt that way. It was time to put words back in a box and turn to kisses and caresses and the sweet hot breath that would slip out of his lips to mine and mine to his.

  His housekeeper wasn’t in sight when we arrived, but I had the sense that we were being watched. He took my hand and led me quickly up the stairway to his round bedroom. When we entered, he lifted me and placed me gently on his bed.

  “I practice safe sex,” I said.

  “I do, too, only I’m beyond practice,” he countered with that impish smile.

  “We’ll see,” I told him.

  He surprised me by getting completely undressed first. Then he knelt beside me and slowly, like someone unwrapping a precious birthday or Christmas gift, peeled away my clothing. He had what he needed beside the bed.

  During one of our more intimate conversations, Sheena had pursued my descriptions of my sexual experiences, demanding more and more detail, especially involving my own reactions. I remembered tellin
g her that it hadn’t ever yet been for me the way it was described in her novels, the way some of the passages she read to me described it. She was shocked to hear that most of the time, I didn’t even have an orgasm.

  “Oh, I faked it sometimes when I knew the boy I was with might say something nasty about me. I wanted him to think he was quite the stud, even though he wasn’t.”

  “I thought that was possible,” she’d said. “I just didn’t understand how or why.”

  “Good lovers consider each other,” I explained. “Neither is really satisfied unless the other is, too.”

  “Oh.”

  I thought about that while Paul was making love to me, and I saw how much care he was taking to satisfy me first. He didn’t rush anything, not a caress, not a kiss. Each one was as perfect and meaningful as the previous one. In one of Sheena’s novels, the author had described the man making love as though he were playing a beautiful instrument. I had thought that was over the top until now. Paul strummed and touched me to bring me to one crescendo after another. We were composing a symphony. Did this extraordinary lovemaking stem from real passion or even, dare I say it, love, or was he just good at what he did?

  Never had I felt so wonderfully exhausted afterward. My whole body was pleased, every part of me contented. We lay next to each other without speaking, listening to each other’s quickened breathing as it slowed. He put his head softly against my shoulder, and, still naked, we fell asleep beside each other. Before morning, we woke and made love again. It wasn’t as long as the first time, but it was just as sweet. Neither of us woke with the morning sunlight. We were too lost in the memory of each other soothing our dreams, keeping us floating in a restful repose.

  When it was nearly noon, his phone rang, and we both woke, groaned at the interruption, and struggled to get up the energy and desire to rise. I turned over first while he talked. I didn’t want to listen, but I could hear from his monosyllabic answers that he was talking to someone he didn’t want to know about my presence.

  “Yes,” he finished. “I’ll be there tonight. Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you, too.”

  I heard him hang up, and then I turned to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “Just take me back.”

  “After breakfast, please. I’ll call down and have it ready for us.”

  I hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not? I’ll take a quick shower, then.”

  “So will I,” he told me, smiling. “I’ll wash your back if you wash mine.”

  “All right, but don’t get too used to it,” I told him. “I don’t think it’s something you’ll experience too much.”

  He nodded. “Neither do I,” he said.

  I’d been half hoping he would disagree, but Mrs. Brittany’s warnings sounded true and strong.

  I just had to learn how to not care after I had convinced myself that I should.

  16

  I didn’t see Paul for nearly a week afterward. He called once during that time to apologize for not being able to take me out on the family yacht. He described the various things he had to do. I read between the lines and understood that he was involved with his family and especially his future fiancée. Mrs. Brittany’s words continued to haunt me. To her way of thinking, he would never be able to marry me, or even want to, but he wasn’t above offering to keep me.

  I suppose most people would wonder why that would continue to bother me even after I had convinced myself that it wouldn’t. Here I was, training to be an escort for wealthy and powerful men, even women. What was the difference?

  I guess, as hard as it would be for anyone to believe, especially my father, I saw my work with and for Mrs. Brittany as something that would give me respect and, most important, give me independence. To me, a kept woman was a plaything, something held on ice for whenever her patronizing lover had the time, inclination, or freedom to call for her. Even though I might have the same sort of worldly things, I wouldn’t have an iota of self-respect. No, I thought, if Paul actually offered me such a relationship now, even after our time together, I would turn him down soundly. The longer I didn’t see him, the more resolved I was about it.

  Norbert stepped in and was there to escort me everywhere in the interim. The first thing we did, as he had first promised, was go to lunch up in Èze village. It was like being on the top of the world. He was right about the breathtaking views, the picturesque village with its cobblestone walkways and unique shops. We had pizza at a small restaurant and watched the parade of tourists from all over Europe, Asia, the U.K., and America stream by, some with guides rattling off details and information that seemed to float past them as their eyes went everywhere else.

  I could sense that he wanted to talk about Paul but was hesitant. I pushed a little, since my curiosity was quite strong now, and he finally opened up.

  “Paul has always had trouble being his own person. His father determined what would be his interests, who would be his friends in school, and, of course, who would be his fiancée. I keep waiting for him to cut that umbilical cord, which in this case is attached not to his mother but to his father. But don’t misunderstand me. I love the guy and would do anything for him. He’s essentially the brother I never had,” Norbert told me.

  “And how do you get along with Paul’s father?” I asked. “Does he approve of the friendship?”

  “Yes,” Norbert said, smiling. “I know what you’re implying, but with my love life the way it is, his father felt Paul was in safer company.”

  “Safer?”

  “I wouldn’t be introducing him to female barracudas who might pounce on his wealth.”

  “You introduced him to me.”

  He laughed. “You’re a sunfish, Roxy, not a barracuda. At least, not yet.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. He had a wry smile. “I’d be glad to know that I underestimated you.”

  “Glad? I see. You half wish I would get between him and his father, don’t you? That’s why you brought him around.”

  “Moi?” he said, feigning innocence. “Heaven forbid.”

  “Do you really think there’s any chance of that?”

  He shrugged. “You’re a remarkable young lady. He has to be very impressed with you. I know I am.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he really knew about me. How much did he know about Mrs. Brittany’s company? Wouldn’t he risk angering her if he was instrumental in ruining one of her girls by getting her good and married or involved with someone like Paul who might tempt her away? Look at how much she had already invested in me. I’m sure she would not be too happy with her godson if she knew that. I thought it best not to bring any of this up, however. It would, in fact, violate one of the stipulations of the agreement I had signed. A Brittany girl never talked with an outsider about the company, nor was I ever to mention what training I had undergone at Mrs. Brittany’s Long Island estate.

  Norbert sensed my hesitation and changed the topic of conversation to other things and the places I should visit while I was at Mrs. Brittany’s villa. He volunteered to do as much of it as he could.

  Later that week, when Norbert took me to the concert in Monaco, I met his partner, Caesar Ferrante, a handsome, dark-haired Italian man who was one of the assistant managers at the world-famous Hermitage Hotel in Monte Carlo. I saw immediately why Norbert was so fond of him. He had a great, upbeat personality and was just as tuned in to style and culture. At times, they seemed more like twins.

  Afterward, we had a great time together at a club that catered to both gays and straight couples but favored gays. I danced with both of them and at one point with both of them at the same time. We were out until nearly three in the morning. I slept well past noon the next day, and Margery didn’t attempt to wake me. Two days later, Norbert and Caesar took me to Sanremo, Italy, for lunch and some fun shopping. It was only an hour’s ride, but they were keeping me so busy with these trips, lunches, and dinners that I had little time to
pine over not seeing Paul.

  And then, at the end of this week, Paul suddenly appeared one afternoon while I was lounging at the pool. Mrs. Brittany had just called to say she would be coming to the villa in two days. She said the media interest in my disappearance was waning.

  “The magazine article appeared, but as far as I or any of my sources know, there isn’t much follow-up expected,” she told me. “I think this will soon be completely forgotten. There are too many young girls like you, anyway, for anyone to remember what you looked like or even care.”

  “Then I won’t be here much longer?”

  “No, not much longer,” she said. “Unless you have some reason to stay.”

  “No, I have none,” I said quickly.

  I wondered if she knew any more about my parents, but I was afraid to ask and show too much interest. I couldn’t help wondering how Mama had taken the failure of the media attention to produce any leads or result in my being found and maybe brought home. I imagined my father had berated himself for caring—or weakening, as he might think of it. I could just imagine him saying, “Well, that’s that. We tried. She doesn’t want to return. Don’t bring up her name again.”

  Emmie would surely be terribly confused about it all. She had probably been right beside Mama, hoping the media attention would bring me back. Surely every time she saw her girlfriends with their older sisters, she thought of me. Young girls often idolize their older sisters and envy them for their freedom, their little love affairs, and their clothes. Whenever they can, they secretly put on their older sisters’ things or use their makeup. They love listening in on their phone conversations or reading secret notes. I knew that Emmie’s girlfriends who had older sisters surely mentioned these things and that she must have felt a great emptiness and envy. She’d had an older sister once, but that older sister had left without bothering to wake her up to say good-bye, an older sister who was probably more like a nasty dream.

  I spent the morning thinking about all this and was heavily involved in my darker thoughts when Paul arrived.