Roxy''s Story

  I looked at it. How could I tell him I knew no one I could trust now? I took it from him and studied it. It could be a phony license with a phony name, I thought, but it wasn’t a phony picture. It was clearly Mr. Bob.

  “And if I do this?”

  “We go for the ride, visit with this person. She’ll decide about you, and then we’ll return to wherever you’re staying. Safely back, you return my license. Okay?”

  I stared at it. For one thing, I was too embarrassed to tell him where I was staying. He would think I was a complete loser, and I didn’t want that, even though I still didn’t know what he was offering.

  “I don’t know,” I said, putting the license down on the table.

  “Listen, you have to take some risks to get anywhere or do anything. I think you’ve already learned that. You just haven’t gotten anywhere yet.”

  “Maybe I’m just starting out.”

  “Oh, no question that you are, but that’s why I wanted to approach you, to get to you before you were spoiled.”

  “Spoiled?”

  “Life on your own, especially in a city like New York, is very hard on anyone, let alone a young, beautiful girl like yourself. No matter how smart you think you are, someone will get to you and drag you down in the gutter. A year from now, your parents won’t recognize you, anyway.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “But none of that will matter once you come with me. I’m confident,” he added.

  I looked at his license again. I guessed I would take it. How would he know I had no one to trust? “When exactly do I meet with this person?”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ll pick you up in two hours. Are those the best clothes you have to wear right now?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at his watch again. “Would you mind if I bought you something to wear? It’s important.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or make for the door. “You want to buy me something to wear?”

  “There’s a boutique just two blocks east, Ooh La La. They have what you need. We’ll go right now. It’s a five-minute walk.” He waved to the waitress. “Add all this to my monthly bill, Paula,” he said, “and add a twenty-percent tip.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “You have a bill here?”

  “I have a running account at a few of my favorite places,” he said, standing. “Shall we go?”

  I got up. He nodded toward the table. I had forgotten to take his license. I picked it up and put it into my purse and then followed him out. All the while, I was thinking, This is insane. He’s going to turn out to be some sort of nutcase for sure, but then why would the restaurant trust him? I looked back at the waitress as we left. She smiled at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Huh? What did she know?

  “So, tell me more about yourself,” he said as we started toward the corner of the street. “Where exactly does your family live?”

  “The East Side,” I said. I didn’t want to give him the exact address.

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A much younger sister. My mother wasn’t supposed to have either of us.”

  “Oh. My mother always used to tell me that,” he said. “I was brought up in Philadelphia. My father was a very successful dentist. I have an older sister. She lives in California. So what subject did you like the best at school?”

  “English, I guess.”

  “Yes, that’s right. You read. Any boyfriends you’ve left behind?”

  “All of them,” I told him, and he laughed. “I wasn’t ever attached to anyone too long.”

  “I bet they regretted it,” he said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t.”

  He laughed harder, and we crossed a street, turned, and stopped halfway down the block at the store he had described. He opened the door for me, and as soon as we stepped in, the young woman attending a customer turned and immediately smiled. She said something to her customer and approached us quickly.

  “Mr. Bob, how are you?”

  “I’m a hundred and five percent, Clea. This is . . .” He suddenly realized he didn’t know my name, and that made him blush. For a moment, I thought I would let him dangle and look foolish, but then I smiled and came to his rescue.

  “Roxy,” I told the salesgirl.

  “Yes, Roxy. We need an elegant black cocktail dress, and I know you have the right shoes and purse to go with it,” he added.

  Clea looked me over. “I have the exact dress for her, Mr. Bob. Please, follow me.” She led me to the changing room in the rear.

  I was anticipating that she would ask me questions to find out who I was and why I was with Mr. Bob, but she said nothing. She opened the changing room and went to get the dress she was proposing. She returned quickly, as if she did know exactly what I should wear. She held it up, and the label dangled. It read “Emilio Pucci,” and the price was $1,500. I looked at her as if she was crazy.

  “Believe me, this is your dress,” she said. It was a figure-fitting, lightweight jersey knit with a bold butterfly print in a modern one-shoulder design. I took it from her slowly. She smiled and closed the door. For a moment, I just gazed at myself in the mirror. Is this nuts? I asked my image. I took off my clothes and put on the dress. It fit me as if it had been custom-made for me. The beauty of the dress and the way I looked seemed to wash away the sadness and defeats of the day. I saw the flush flow through my neck and into my face.

  Many times I had looked at myself and thought, I’m not bad, but at this moment, I suddenly realized I was far more than that. I really was very beautiful. I didn’t have to convince myself of it. I had spent so much time being angry and resentful that I hadn’t permitted what could flower and blossom in me to do so. Right now, it was doing just that. I heard a knock on the door. The salesgirl smiled when she saw me and then handed me a pair of platform pumps in shiny pink patent leather. These, too, had been made in Italy. The price tag read “$700.” I slipped them on. They were also a perfect fit. The four-inch heels made me statuesque. I stood staring at myself in the mirror.

  “How are we doing?” I heard Mr. Bob ask.

  “I think magnifique,” the salesgirl said.

  I stepped out slowly, and Mr. Bob’s smile widened, his eyes brightening. “How can I be so right all the time?” he asked the salesgirl.

  “Some people have an eye for beautiful jewelry, beautiful art. You have an eye for beautiful women,” she replied.

  “How do you like it?” he asked me.

  “Do you know how much all this costs?”

  “A safe investment, in my mind. And the purse?” he asked the salesgirl.

  “Ah, oui.” She went out and brought one back. Its price was $500.

  “Perfect,” Mr. Bob said.

  I looked at the salesgirl and then at the other customer, who had stopped buying anything for herself and was now more fascinated by what was going on with us. What was I getting myself into? How come the restaurant and this salesgirl knew him so well? I tried to imagine what my father would say if he knew where I was and what I was doing. Mama would probably start crying.

  Mr. Bob looked at his watch. “You might want to freshen up or something before we start out,” he suggested.

  This was my time to back out. I could just go into that changing room, get back into my own clothes, hand the beautiful dress and shoes to the salesgirl, and walk away. But I didn’t.

  I returned to the changing room and got back into my clothes. The salesgirl took the dress, shoes, and purse and packaged it all in a pretty bag with the store’s name. Once again, I heard Mr. Bob say, “Put it on my bill, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Très bien,” she replied. Another customer entered, but the first had remained and was still watching us as we left the store.

  “Okay, that’s done,” Mr. Bob said. “So where do I pick you up in”—he looked at his watch—“about an hour?”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the restaurant we were at,” I said.
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  “Really?” He studied my face for a moment. He understood and nodded. “Fine. An hour.”

  We parted at the corner, and I hurried away. My mind was spinning with the possibilities. He really was an agent, probably an agent for a modeling firm. He was taking me to meet the owner of the firm. Other girls dreamed of becoming international models making tons of money. The idea had flashed through my mind from time to time, but I never really dwelled on it or on the thought of becoming a movie or television star. I had a nice voice, but I couldn’t imagine myself going on some television show and winning. The truth was, I never had high ambitions for myself. Miss Gene loved to point that out whenever I was brought into the guidance office for a session.

  It was something else I could easily blame on my father, I thought. He criticized and chastised me so much it was impossible for me to have a good image of myself, or at least one good enough to build some ambition on it. And my mother didn’t imagine great things for me, either. Yes, she wanted me to do well in school, but she never pushed me to do anything. It was as if I would magically fall into something that would clarify my future and save us all from the deep, disastrous pit lying in wait for me.

  What else could this be but a modeling job? I was determined to do my best to get it, because I knew I would make enough money to do just what Mr. Bob suggested and be independent. It was all a great stroke of luck. If I hadn’t been in that restaurant when he was, none of this would be happening. I should be grateful now that no one had even thought of hiring me for one of those low-paying jobs.

  I sped up. I wanted to work harder on my hair and do the best job on my makeup that I could with what little I had before returning to meet Mr. Bob. I felt strong and confident again. When I entered the fleabag hotel, the old man was behind the counter. He widened his eyes and looked surprised at the smile I had for him.

  “You staying another day?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

  I laughed and hurried up to my room. I laid the dress, shoes, and purse on the bed and stared at it all. With taxes, this man had just spent almost three thousand dollars on me. How did he even know I would show up and he would ever see me again? Surely he saw something in me that gave him so much confidence.

  It was only when I looked into the smoky, cracked mirror that I thought to myself, If this turns out to be nothing or something disappointing, Papa will have won.

  And it would be a long time before I smiled with the arrogance and confidence with which I had smiled at the old man downstairs again.

  3

  I was in front of the restaurant early. As I stood there, I thought that maybe being early was a mistake. It showed too much eagerness, and in my experience, when you showed too much eagerness for anything someone else could do for you or give you, you were at a big disadvantage. All my life, I believed it was the nature of people to enjoy the feeling of superiority that your being in debt to them brought them. Papa and his military family taught me that with their ranks and officers and the way underlings were often treated. All that bullying was supposed to make the victim tougher and build character, but to me, it was simply a way for those in charge to feel more important. Maybe that was why I was so defiant most of the time.

  Watching the buses and cars go by, I wondered if Mr. Bob had expected me to have a proper shawl or jacket to go along with my new dress. I glanced at my image in the window. I was wearing a beautiful dress with beautiful shoes, but I couldn’t help feeling awkward and out of place. I was certainly too formally dressed to be standing on a sidewalk in this neighborhood. The longer I waited, the more ridiculous I began to feel, despite the admiring looks and comments I was getting from men of all ages who were passing by or going in and out of the restaurant.

  I had almost turned to flee when a black stretch limousine suddenly pulled up to the curb. The driver, in full chauffeur uniform, stepped out quickly and opened the rear door. He turned to me and nodded. I was a bit dumbfounded, but when I looked into the automobile, I saw Mr. Bob smiling.

  “You look great,” he said.

  I got in, and the driver closed the door.

  “I like what you did with your hair, but you really do need some professional help with it and with your makeup. You’d be surprised at the difference it will make when a professional gets to work on you. I’m sure Mrs. Brittany will have something to say about all that. If anyone can turn a swan into a princess, it’s Mrs. Brittany.”

  “Mrs. Brittany? That’s whom we’re going to see?” I stressed “whom.”

  “Yes. She has a title, but she never uses it. She’s actually a Belgian countess. She was born in France but married a man who was a descendant of Robert of Flanders, Count James Brittany. Don’t smirk. These aristocratic Europeans have real evidence of their ancestry. They all have books detailing their lineage, with pictures of their ancestors, their houses, and their art. It’s all quite impressive, but as Mrs. Brittany will tell you, many of the blue bloods have little to show for it. The truth is, when her husband died, he left her little more than the nice apartment they had bought in Paris and some expensive jewelry and art. However, she was always a very enterprising woman and turned her inheritance into a multimillion-dollar venture. She had married very young. Her husband was nearly twenty years older.”

  “Twenty years?”

  “It’s not that uncommon. You might say it was something of an arranged affair.”

  “Did she remarry?”

  “No, although she’s been proposed to by some of the wealthiest men in the world. If you want to know and understand what it means to be an independent woman, you’ll learn quickly when you get to know her. If you get to know her,” he added. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m feeling very confident about you, but I don’t want to give you the impression that this is a done deal. Although she has rarely rejected a prospect I’ve brought her, she has on occasion.”

  He leaned toward me and patted my hand.

  “Just be yourself,” he advised. “You’ll do fine. Anyway, Mrs. Brittany is a very accomplished woman. She speaks four languages, including Japanese. She’s about as traveled a person as I have ever met, and she is on a friendly basis with some of the most powerful and influential people in the world, besides being an elegant beauty herself.”

  “Rich, powerful, beautiful, intelligent, royal,” I catalogued. “She doesn’t sound real.”

  “Oh, she’s real enough. You’ll see that. She’s just not someone who suffers fools gladly, if you know what I mean. When she makes a decision, it’s final, but if she likes what she sees, she’s completely invested. I’m confident that she’s going to like what she sees when she meets you. In fact, I’m so confident, I thought we’d begin with a little toast, anticipating both your success and mine.”

  He reached forward to pluck an opened bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and handed me a glass that had a strawberry in it.

  “You like champagne?” he asked.

  “I like real champagne,” I said.

  His eyes widened. “Real champagne?”

  “My mother is from France,” I reminded him. “I know the difference between ordinary sparkling wine and champagne. Only the sparkling wine grown and produced in the region of Champagne in France can be truly called champagne.”

  “Très bien,” he said. He turned the bottle around to show me the label, Moët & Chandon, and then spun it again to show me where it had been produced and bottled. “Satisfied?”

  I nodded, and he poured me half a glass. “So,” I said after taking a sip, “when are you going to tell me what it is I’m trying out for? Modeling, I imagine?”

  “Oh, absolutely. In a way.”

  “In a way? What does that mean?”

  “You’ll learn everything a successful runway model knows, and you’ll be treated just as well, if not better.”

  “But I won’t be one?”

  “Not exactly.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “You won’t be on display for j
ust anyone. No runways, no pictures in newspapers and magazines, nothing like that.”

  I sipped some more champagne and sat back. “Please continue,” I said. “I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  He laughed. “When you glare at me like that, you actually remind me of Mrs. Brittany. It’s futile to lie to someone like her.”

  “So don’t try,” I said. “Well?” I added when he didn’t speak.

  “Mrs. Brittany likes to do the explaining.”

  “You mean you want to wait until I’m more or less a captive audience?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I’m just afraid I won’t do the description justice.”

  “Take a chance,” I said. “Risk it.”

  He looked at me, smiled, and shook his head. “You are different. Okay. I’ll get more into it.”

  He sat up straighter and took on a more serious demeanor, as if he were on the witness stand in a courtroom or something.

  “Very wealthy and very successful men are often too busy to look after their social lives, especially when they are out of town, and for many of these men, New York City is out of town. They fly in for very important meetings and conferences, often on their private jets. Some own them, and some fly their companies’ planes. They’re generally very goal-oriented, hardworking executives, who, when they do get a chance to relax, like to relax with women who meet their expectations.”

  “What expectations?”

  “Intellect, grace, style, beauty, humor—in short, high-class escorts. When I looked at you, and especially after I spoke with you, I sensed that you could be a star in this organization. I like to take pride in my ability to spot someone like you, someone who already has some of what is required in her and just needs to be placed in Mrs. Brittany’s capable hands to develop and nurture the rest.”

  “You sound like you’re casting me in a movie.”

  “In a sense, I am. I really was an entertainment agent once,” he quickly continued. “That’s a cutthroat business. I was at it night and day. Besides finding work for my clients, I had to babysit many of them. It got so I didn’t have a personal life anymore, and then I met Mrs. Brittany through a mutual friend, the head of a movie studio.